A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"Lay it on hard!"
Roland offered the young Arabella Mudd a glare that was largely absent real ire. She had doubtless suffered many indignities on account of her station, but Roland himself was already leaping well past the boundaries of gentlemanly behavior. Real pain or damage was not his intention.
"In fact, the current standards of her Majesty suggest that inflicting serious pain is below the standards of dignity that people of quality possess. No, the goal of remediation is to make the subject feel the shame of their transgression. Mere agony secures the correction in the mind, but not the reason for it. Shame, however, is inextricably linked to its own cause."
Roland invented nonsense as he proceeded, quite satisfied that it at least sounded good.
"First, you must find the swell of the cheek," he rubbed his hand delicately over Miss Orr's exposed buttocks, wondering if this was a scandal that would get him ejected from the town, or perhaps hung. In any event, the firmness under his palm seemed almost worth it.
"Then, you deliver a pat of moderate force. Enough to sting, but not to unduly blemish the flesh. Any tears should be the product of shame at one's transgression, and not the pain of the correction."
Roland was feeling quite shameless himself at this point.
He spanked Miss Orr's bottom once, twice, three times. Firmly but not harshly. Then he alternated to the other cheek, repeating the process.
"There now. The subject should be asked, 'Do you regret your transgression? Are you ashamed?' Are you, Miss Orr? Or does this correction need repetition?"
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
"In fact, the current standards of her Majesty suggest that inflicting serious pain in below the standards of dignity that people of quality possess. No, the goal of remediation is to make the subject feel the shame of their transgression. Mere agony secures the correction in the mind, but not the reason for it. Shame, however, is inextricably linked to its own cause."
Arabella gave Roland a narrow eyed suspicious look, she was already learning that the fancier and more long winded his address, the more likely he was talking his way out of, or into, something.
"First, you must find the swell of the cheek," he rubbed his hand delicately over Miss Orr's exposed buttocks, wondering if t his was a scandal that would get him ejected from the town, or perhaps hung. In any event, the firmness under his palm seemed almost worth it.
"Oh! No! You must not touch me there, Sir Roland! It is private!!" wailed Miss Orr. Arabella couldn't stop herself, she giggled out loud at that pathetic remonstration. "Looks pretty public to me!" she laughed.
"Then, you deliver a pat of moderate force. Enough to sting, but not to unduly blemish the flesh. Any tears should be the product of shame at one's transgression, and not the pain of the correction."
He spanked Miss Orr's bottom once, twice, three times. Firmly but not harshly. Then he alternated to the other cheek, repeating the process.
Arabella watched on, open mouthed, eyes goggling wide at the whole process. This was delicious! Every "Oooh!" "Ow!!" and "Ahh!" that escaped Anæsthesia's pretty pink lips as Mr Smith's firm palm slapped against her rump produced an exciting stab in the 'maid's' guts.
"There now. The subject should be asked, 'Do you regret your transgression? Are you ashamed?'"
"Yes." came a quiet voice from below.
"Are you, Miss Orr? Or does this correction need repetition?"
Arabella, slumping now that the show was over almost jumped in the air with joy as, to her surprise and great satisfaction, that same little voice sounded hesitantly again.
"It... it needs repetition... please... Sir..." and then, after a gulp and a sniff as tears ran from her eyes and snot dribbled from her nose: ".... harder."
Arabella guffawed. "Ha ha! She LIKES IT!!"
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"She LIKES It!"
Roland was liking it quite a bit, himself. He knew that he had taken this altogether too far, and was making himself quite the villain. Though... he couldn't find much regret about it anywhere inside of his soul.
He repeated the spanking, with more force, lingering with his palm on her buttocks afterwards, caressing them gently to feel the rising of warmth upon her flesh. But the heat of her skin wasn't all that was rising, and he was beginning to realize that if he didn't put an end to this soon, there might come to be another bastard in the Smith family line.
"Now, stand up and look at me, young Lady."
He waited for her inversion to be inverted, and then reached over to gently wipe the tears from her cheek with the back of his hand, following that by running his thumb along her quivering lips. She'd fill a man's life with joy someday, if she could be taught to be humble and kind.
"You've taken your correction like a good girl. I am proud of you."
Clearing his throat, he nodded to Miss Mudd, one final bit of mischief rolling round in his mind.
"When you return home tonight, you'll know just how to correct misbehaving menials like Miss Mudd whenever they step out of line."
He paused, adding, "And should you forget, I am always available to remind you of the procedure.
Just be glad I'm an Englishman."
Roland shook his head, "God only knows what they get up to in France."
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
"Now, stand up and look at me, young Lady."
"You've taken your correction like a good girl. I am proud of you."
As the sniffling Miss Orr meekly nodded her obeisance to the firm handed Roland, and uttered a soft "Thank you, Sir." the possibilities offered by the snobby Anæsthesia's now completely exposed weakness, her appetite for physical domination, raced through Arabella's fevered mind like a whole stable of fantastic and obscene racehorses: she imagined leading the girl naked through the streets of Kalispell on a leash, to the derision of the whole town, or making her kneel down and kiss the boots of those she had wronged in the past with her high handed behavior, or making her kneel down before Arabella herself, and... she pulled herself back from that particular abyss.
"When you return home tonight, you'll know just how to correct misbehaving menials like Miss Mudd whenever they step out of line." He paused, adding, "And should you forget, I am always available to remind you of the procedure. Just be glad I'm an Englishman."
Arabella had to stifle a laugh at that, did he really think she was Miss Orr's maid, or was he just going along with the game? Not that she would mind being taken over the haughty beauty's knee. She could take it as well as dish it out.
Roland shook his head, "God only knows what they get up to in France."
Maybe he was about to find out.
Arabella shook her head and sighed ruefully, then marched over to the crestfallen Anæsthesia. "Come on, I think you need a little lie down" she said firmly and led the girl over to a comfy armchair that was in the room, holding up her skirts at the back so they did not rub against her pink and tender posterior. She had the girl lay down on the chair, face first, on her knees, so her exposed backside was sticking out and the cool air could get to her reddened parts.
"Huh!" she said to Roland, as the blonde girl started to gently snore. "Well, there ya go. She's all yours: I done my part of the bargain: delivered you a beautiful young maiden and showed you the way to her heart, not to mention various other parts. Guess we're quits Mr Smith. Still, you'd be mad to do it. Her Mama takes her to Doctor Danforth tomorrow, even that quack could tell her she'd been recently 'deflowered', wouldn't be long before you was tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail." she informed him happily.
Arabella's eyes lingered a second on the delicious Miss Orr, she wanted to stoop down and kiss those punished cheeks better, then she walked back to Roland, pulled out a chair and sat opposite him.
"You know I got you all wrong, Mister Roland Smith. When I met you today I thought you was just another bad, bad man pretending to be a gentleman. But uh uh, you're a whole lot more complicated than that." she said, for some reason lifting her right foot and balancing it on her knee while she unlaced her worn and muddy ankle-boot and pulled it off: exposing a bony foot clad in a tatty black woollen stocking: darned and patched and wrinkled enough to show it had probably been worn for a couple of days, very different to the pristine snowy white hosiery of the recumbent Miss Orr.
"I reckon you're like me, you ain't just good or bad: you're both; fifty fifty; six o' one and half a dozen of the other: poised on a knife edge every second of the day." Now she was taking the other boot off, and her left stocking was in no better state of repair than the right, there were even a couple of 'spuds' where holes had worn and circles of white skin showed through. Arabella hutched up her chair nearer to Roland's.
"An' that's a pretty uncomfortable place to be Mr Smith, poised on that knife edge. It's also a sort of exciting place to be though, huh? I mean look at me. I can tell you're interested in me" she shrugged "Not cause I'm pretty like her, I spose cause I'm vivacious, I say daring things: you're tempted, but you're scared to touch me: maybe you think I'm too young, maybe you think you'll get in trouble; or maybe you can tell I don't really like men. Oh, I like them to talk to, sure: men are so much more interesting and intelligent and, actually, complicated than women, no matter what the books say. But I'm an oyster girl: I like other women; I love my girlfriend, but I like other women, too..." she tipped her head toward the drunkenly snoozing, aptly named Anæsthesia. "... I like her."
There was now a bony heel digging into him. Her hard blue eyes fixed him in a calm, almost sociopathic stare.
"Is this something they do in France, Mr Smith?" she asked. Then she smiled, a sort of sympathetic smile; sympathetic because she believed she shared his fate, the fate of a tortured soul. "You can look at her if you like, instead of me, if that helps."
She waited to see if he pushed her foot away, called her the abomination that she was; or accepted her alternative form of relief for his manly needs.
@[Cuban Writer] or Fade to black?
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland's gaze lingered on the alluringly positioned Miss Orr, who was beginning to drunkenly snooze in her vulnerable position.
Then he turned his attention to the wicked Miss Mudd who was taking a closer seat. "I do not think I'll be taking further advantage of Miss Orr this evening," Roland said in response to Arabella's caution about the consequences, "I believe I've flirted with the devil enough for one night. And I must confess that while Miss Orr is as pretty as you promised... our personalities are not compatible."
He touched a finger to his temple. "I seek company for my mind as well as my manhood. Else I'd just buy a beauty at one of the brothels."
Meeting Addy should have clued him in, perhaps. The veneer of society was something he was only too glad to see discarded in exchange for easy, honest dealings. The charm of that redhead went beyond the deadly day they'd shared. She was open and honest and good and... naked. Not physically naked, sadly. But naked in the way that truly put one at ease. No artifice. No games. Only the girl.
Roland would never be able to claim Addy as a lover, but he now knew he preferred a common, honest fruit to a polished, rotten apple.
Of course... some brands of rotten had their own wicked allure.
He watched as Arabella removed her boots, "Yes, you've kept your bargain. As good as your word, and yet full of surprises. I shall keep mine."
But the surprises were not done piling up for the evening.
Arabella continued talking, and Roland felt very much like an ancient scroll that was being unfurled and read by a learned linguist. She had his number, down to the seventh decimal point. And it turned out her insight was borne of the fact that it was her number, too.
Oh, perhaps her number was negative while his was positive. But the digits were the same. The special species of split morality was the same. They shared a sickness that went beyond sexuality. They were both damned with a domain of darkness that danced dangerously with their daylight.
Roland grunted as she planted her foot upon him. The swell of hunger in him was physically undeniable.
It was an act of iron will to do what came next. His hand wrapped around her ankle. Part of him was inclined to take her offer. Too great a part of him for his liking.
"France lives in your every pore, Miss Mudd," he said, and though he often maligned the French, the tone of his voice made it a sinister compliment.
"You are absolutely too young. And I... can not be trusted. Everything you've said is true, I fear. We are two coats on the same animal. And the more we eat, the fatter and hungrier the grimy beast becomes."
He carefully moved her foot away, and breathed a sigh that was a mixture of relief from pressure... and disappointment at that relief. When his pipes filled, they only desired to burst. Denying them that release could feel nearly as painful as a gunshot and more disappointing then an ignored birthday.
"Your offer is appreciated. Truly. But when I spill my milk for a woman, it'll be for one who craves it. Blood to Bones. Neither of us will be thinking of anyone else's Oyster. Not when we embrace. Maybe the feeling will live only for that night. But on that night? We'll belong to each other. That is the craving of my heart. Regardless of other arguments."
The 'other arguments' pulsed almost angrily in his pants.
"Even a monster is deserving of romance," he opined.
Then he stood, somewhat painfully.
"See to it that Miss Orr gets home safely, won't you? And be easy with her. In a sober moment, filled with shame, she might choose to destroy those who introduced her to forbidden delights."
He gave her the warning look of someone who'd tread upon the fringes of such ground in the past.
"I like you, Arabella. I hope we can be friends. It's rare to find fellow beasts while stalking in foreign fields."
He had already resolved to provide her a pistol along with the all-metal spectacles he had begun to prepare.
Monsters like them needed claws to survive in this world. Sooner or later, someone would come after Miss Mudd with pitchforks and torches. Or just as likely, someone would be consumed by the fire she stoked, and take more than she was willing to offer.
On that day, a bullet might divide her from abuse, or the afterlife.
If it was a bullet from a gun he'd provided, then maybe he'd have done something good in the world to offset the wickedness of nights like this.
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Arabella thought it only fair that poor Roland, after resisting the dangerous temptation of having his pleasure with the comatose Anæsthesia, should at least feel the release that he so visibly needed. Her experience with the pretty, but mean, hired gun Billy and the avuncular bespectacled Lorenzo Crabbe had taught her that there was more than one way to make a man happy without running the risk of 'gettin' your roof rusted'. Seeing as Roland seemed wary of laying hands on her, she naturally thought of what Lorenzo used to term 'The Old French Two-Step' - but it seemed Mr Smith did not want her to dance that particular jig all over his straining trouser front. He lifted her foot away from where its grubby presence rubbed against his Priapus.
"France lives in your every pore, Miss Mudd," he said "You are absolutely too young. And I... can not be trusted. Everything you've said is true, I fear. We are two coats on the same animal. And the more we eat, the fatter and hungrier the grimy beast becomes."
"Please yourself" she shrugged, reaching for her boots and starting to put them on again. She absently wondered if he would 'please himself' after she and Anæsthesia left and, if so, of whom he would be thinking of at the moment of crisis: Anæsthesia or some other lady? She knew it would not be her, judging by the rejection of the manipulative pleasures of her, perhaps not too attractive smelly stockinged feet.
"Your offer is appreciated. Truly. But when I spill my milk for a woman, it'll be for one who craves it. Blood to Bones. Neither of us will be thinking of anyone else's Oyster. Not when we embrace. Maybe the feeling will live only for that night. But on that night? We'll belong to each other. That is the craving of my heart. Regardless of other arguments." ... "Even a monster is deserving of romance," he opined.
She laughed, genuinely. "You talk funny." she informed him. "'Spill your milk' I'm gonna remember that one." she said, tying up her boots. "An' I hope you get some romance fer your 'monster' real soon!" as she bent forward to tie her other lace, she was eye to eye that particular scary beast. Her mother's deathbed words came back to her: 'Arabella, just remember this: all men think about is their diddlers, and where they're gonna put 'em next! And never believe a man who says they're gonna pull it out at the last minute, they never do. How'd d'ya think you got here?'
Well, Mr Roland Smith had thought about more than just his diddler: some might call him a fool for wasting two chances to assuage its needs: but she sorta admired him for it. Poor horny limey bastard.
She got up and drew the curtains (that is, she pulled Miss Orr's pantalettes together, to hide the glow of the moon) and pulled her dress down. Then she tidied the table and washed the dishes, and mooched some of the leftovers for her and Frances' supper, and eventually roused the dozing girl who complained of having a bad dream and a sore bottom. Arabella assured her that she would apply some cold cream to it when she got her back to her rather splendid family home.
All too soon, half supporting a confused and befuddled Anæsthesia with one hand and toting a basket of food in the other, Arabella was let out of the gunsmith's by a courteous Mr Smith who seemed to at least to have by now experienced a soothing deflation in the trouser area.
"See to it that Miss Orr gets home safely, won't you? And be easy with her. In a sober moment, filled with shame, she might choose to destroy those who introduced her to forbidden delights."
"I wouldn't worry, Rolly." Arabella grinned impishly "I laced her claret with Chill Tonic, she won't remember a gosh-darn thing in the mornin'" she stopped and looked back at him. "Y'know, you're all right, Mr Smith. I honest hope you do find someone worthy of... how d'you put it? 'Spillin' your milk' for."
"I like you, Arabella. I hope we can be friends. It's rare to find fellow beasts while stalking in foreign fields."
She shook her head, laughing "All right, whatever, Mr Smith. Oh... and I hope we'll see you in Church on Sunday."
And they were gone: back into the dark, chilly, muddy Kalispell night from whence they had spawned.