Chapter One

 

I shall not weary my readers with an account of my early childhood, which was uneventful. Suffice it to say that my parents were poor but honest, and very loving. But when I was only eighteen years old they both died of the fever, and I was left homeless and with no means of support. Some distant relatives, of whom I knew nothing, offered to take me in. For this I was grateful, but not for long. The woman of the house encouraged me to call her "aunt". However, she had none of the feelings for me that such a relationship would imply. Instead, she despised me for my poverty and acted towards me as if I were a burden. This would have been hard enough for a lonely and sensitive child to bear. Unfortunately she had a son, Desmond, some three or four years older than I, a spoiled and malicious boy who set out to make my life a misery.

At first he simply bullied me, twisting my hair and pinching me, and making up stories about my bad behavior which he told to his mother. But after I had been in that house for a year or so, my body was well advanced towards womanhood. I trust the reader will not think me indelicate if I say that my bosom was by that time fully formed and such as any woman might be proud of. But I could take no pleasure in this, seeing that my person proved irresistible to this hateful boy. He took to leering at me and making suggestive remarks whenever his mother's back was turned. And then, emboldened by the fact that I had not complained (sensing that it would be useless; his mother believed him perfect in every way), he began to expose himself to me. Often I would be busy in the kitchen (his mother treated me as an unpaid servant, working me night and day) and he would enter silently. Then when I turned around I would be faced with the spectacle of him standing in a corner, his breeches unbuttoned, his member thrust out in a manner both crude and offensive.

"For shame," I would cry. "I wonder that you have no better manners than to insult me in such a way."

He would merely snigger, perhaps frigging himself a little before putting his organ away. Gradually, as I got older he got more daring, grabbing hold of me, attempting to kiss me or fondle me. Often he would pin me in a corner and force his hand up under my skirts, rummaging there in my drawers, seeking to penetrate his fingers into my most private parts. Or else he would try to feel down the front of my stays, squeezing my bosom, pinching my tender young nipples. Naturally I struggled, but I was reluctant to make representations to his mother, because I was sure that she would take his side and might accordingly banish me from her house. I had nowhere else to go, no one else I could turn to. But I knew that eventually things would come to breaking point. It was clear enough that Desmond was intent on having his way with me. It was only a matter of time.

One afternoon Mrs. Reid, his mother, had sent me down to the garden to gather some vegetables for the pot. It was a warm sunny day and I wore only a skirt and loose blouse over my shift and drawers. I worked bent over, digging in the earth for potatoes, when suddenly I was grabbed from behind. Immediately I began to scream. I knew it was Desmond, even before I twisted my head around. But we were some hundred yards from the house; I doubted that Mrs. Reid would hear my cries for help even if she were of a mind to.

Desmond was a strong boy. He threw me on the ground and lay on top. He managed to get one arm under my neck and take hold of one of my hands, pinning down my other arm under his body. He pushed his leg between mine, attempting to force them apart. I struggled with all my might. My resistance might be in vain, but I had no intention of making a present of my honor to this loathsome boy. Nevertheless I felt myself helpless when he put his free hand up under my skirt, pulling it up to my waist. I hoped that he might have difficulty removing my drawers, but this defense proved of no value, for he simply ripped them open, laying bare my belly.

The sight of it seemed to further inflame his lust. He managed to get one hand down to his breeches and pull them open. I could feel his member, hard and strong, pressing against my flesh, attempting to force itself in between my thighs. Surely I was lost. But just then he moved to afford himself better access. Seizing my opportunity, I brought my knee up into his groin with all the strength I could muster. He gave a scream of pain and let go of me, his hands clutching himself.

There was a hedge at the bottom of the garden, and on the other side a lane. As fortune would have it, two laboring men were passing at the time. Hearing the commotion, they scrambled up over the hedge.

"What's this?" said one of them.

I sat up. The man could see my disheveled state. Desmond was still yelling in pain.

"This boy tried to dishonor me," I said tearfully.

"It's a lie," said Desmond, still clutching himself.

"So," the man said, "this poor maid has rent her own clothing?"

Desmond was silent. He knew there was little he could say.

"Where do you live, my dear?" the man asked kindly.

Tearfully, I pointed towards the house.

"Let's take you home," the other man said. Lifting me to my feet, they escorted me up the garden path and knocked on the door. Mrs. Reid answered it. Quickly she took in my distressed state and torn clothing. She could have no doubt about what had transpired. Desmond was hanging back, unwilling to let only my side of the story be heard, yet fearful of speaking while the two men were present.

Having ascertained that I did indeed live at this abode, the two men took their leave. Mrs. Reid pushed me roughly into the kitchen, Desmond looking on sheepishly.

'So, little minx, you have been leading him on again? You are a shameless little hussy. This time you have gone too far!"

I was completely taken aback by the effrontery of her attack upon me. She must have known how false her accusations were. Disdainfully, I told her exactly what had happened. Desmond, of course, denied it. I was sent to my room, where I cleaned myself up as best I could. When I came back down again at supper-time Mrs. Reid called me into her parlor.

"I have decided to send you away," she said. "You are an ungrateful child, who has presumed upon my generosity too long. In two days a carrier will call and transport you to Birchwood School. It is what is generally known as a finishing school, where you will be educated sufficiently to enable you to earn your living as a governess. You will be subjected to strict discipline and hard work, and perhaps that may reform your character, for I am sure that I cannot."

She continued that when I had come to her, a sum of money had been paid from my father's will (I had no idea that he had left any money), and that this was to be used to pay for my schooling, which, she said, was far better than I deserved, given how much I had cost her in board and lodging. My rage at this speech was considerable; leaving aside the predatory conduct of her son; I had slaved for this family night and day, with not a penny of wages, only meager food and a few scraps of clothing. However, I bit my tongue and kept silent, not wishing to be ejected from the house before the morrow, but determined that I should have my say before departing. Accordingly, I ate the meager supper that was provided for me and went to my room to pack up the few poor belongings that I possessed. Whatever Birchwood school may be like, I thought, it could not be worse than enduring Mrs. Reid's ill-will and her son's improper and repugnant attentions.

As I lay in bed that night, I reviewed my situation. I was fortunate, I concluded, to escape from this house with my virtue intact, albeit I had suffered indignity and emotional as well as physical abuse. But I was determined that my prospects would improve once I had left behind those who had been charged with the responsibility of sheltering a poor orphan and had so disgracefully failed in their task. As I lay comforting myself with thoughts of a better tomorrow, my hand crept up under my shift and lodged between my legs.

It is my intention in this memoir to hold back nothing from the reader, no matter how it may outrage. Too many books in this era, I believe, are reticent for fear of offending the delicate sensibilities of the reader. But it is my firm opinion that the educated and mature individual wishes to know the truth about modern life, and especially about the relationships between the sexes. What can be more important than to understand, from a full and frank account, how men and women conduct themselves in the privacy of the bedroom? Surely it cannot be anything but a public good to reveal the most intimate details, even at the risk of shocking those whose experience has not yet extended to actual enactment of the pleasures that may be found in carnal knowledge. Thus I trust the reader will wish me never to draw a veil across even those events which may seem the most shameful; this is life as it is, and we should not shrink from it.

Therefore, let me recount that, lying in my narrow bed that night, thinking back over the events of the day, and my entire history in this place, I sought with my hand to get physical comfort. In truth I was already well practiced in such habits. Perhaps some may doubt it, but it is my firm belief, buttressed by the exchange of information with others, that from a quite early age girls like to touch themselves, to probe and pry into those secret places, learning how best to find pleasure, and which caresses most quickly conduct towards an ecstatic climax.

Already by this time I had discovered that the maximum pleasure was obtained if I touched the little bud at the apex of my female organ. This was my clitoris, though I did not know its name at the time. Mine was too sensitive for me to stroke it directly on top. I found that I had, as it were, to sidle up to it, approaching from the side, gently at first but with increasing firmness as the bud swelled and I grew more excited. I discovered too that when aroused I grew wet inside, often extremely so. Frequently I would push my finger a little way up inside myself, sometimes using one hand to do this while with the other I rubbed my clit. On occasion I felt the need of something more substantial; the handle of my hairbrush, for example. I don't think at that age that such objects were intended as a substitute for the male member; my thoughts were not yet focused on such a thing, as they later became. The only one I had seen was that belonging to Desmond, which did not dispose me favorably towards what men possessed. For the moment, I was content with what I could do for myself.