The Cruise of the 'Bizarre': The Classic Novel of Bondage
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Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: Susan is led into the finely spun web of disaster, trapped on board a ship catering to the most orgiastic pleasures and pain imaginable. She is enslaved and trained to become a vessel from which others draw to gratify any and all whims; ready to do whatever she is told by a group of adults with combined sexual appetites that make La Dolce Vita sound like a grade school picnic.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: February 2008
8 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [215 KB]
Reading time: 138-193 min.
Among the elements of the mania which some people have for flagellation, there appears, according to an old commentator, to be "a feeling of gratification in the pain of another, proceeding from the malignant principle which, in common with the good, is to be found in the heart of man; the close affinity between cruelty and voluptuousness, which, to the physical eye, produces sport from the ludicrous convulsions and gestures of the person under the Rod."
A striking example of this species of flagellation is to be found in the story of Peter Abelard and the beautiful Heloise. Fulbert, uncle of Heloise, committed the care of his niece to Abelard, and gave him full liberty to chastise her according to his pleasure, whenever she was negligent or obstinate. At that time it was a universal custom for male and female scholars, without any hesitation about sex, or respect to age, to be chastised for school offences. The custom of the day led Abelard to use the Rod to his charming pupil, and she allowed herself to agree to it so willingly that, as he himself writes, "not schoolmaster's indignation, but love, often moved him from time to time to administer correction."
No doubt there would be occasions when the obstinacy or disobedience of the pupil might lead to the infliction of punishment in full earnestness, but generally there was rather a feeling of voluptuousness in the matter than a desire to correct. At any rate, Abelard describes with poetic fire and pleasant recollection the sweetness of the discipline which he administered to Heloise. In times when it was the fashion to correct pages and other dependents with the Rod, the mania was sometimes developed to an alarming extent, and more than one exalted mistress excelled in this point of house management. If of a serious turn of mind, the lady was no doubt deeply convinced of the utility of the punishment, while she was also possessed of an anatomical inquisitiveness and an undefined mental feeling. If, on the other hand, she was of an impure nature, she very likely sought in that manner the gratification of a voluptuous sensation. As may be guessed, disastrous consequences not infrequently followed, and many a virtue was made shipwreck of in this way. Gentlemen also availed themselves of the same principle of house government, and many curious stories are extant of the flagellation that took place in palaces and other great houses.
Brantome, in his "Memoirs," mentions a very great lady who delighted in causing her female companions and dependents to strip, when she correct them in nursery fashion with the palm of her hand. Those, however, who had committed grave faults she corrected in a more energetic manner with the Rod. She often amused herself in this way, and, according to her humour at the time, varied the correction to produce laughter or tears. In this matter she may have been actuated by a desire to mete out justice among her dependents, or she may have meant it to be no more than a healthy exercise; but, as Brantome indeed says in so many words, she was most probably prompted to it by a wanton disposition.
Rousseau, in his "Confessions," discussed with great minuteness this penchant for the Rod. He shows that in his case the use of this means of correction toward him in his childhood created the desire to receive it in after years, a desire which was not at all momentary, but accompanied him through the great part of his life. When a boy of eight years of age he was, with some others, entrusted to the care of a Miss Lambercier, a lady thirty years of age, who had a mother's care for her young charges, and sometimes exercised a mother's authority to inflict chastisement on them. After repeated warnings, Rousseau came under the punishment, and received the rod over her lap; but so far from experiencing only shame and pain, he tells us that he felt a strong desire to receive it again, and, in fact, wished for an occasion of a repetition of the punishment. Miss Lambercier was, however, an acute observer, and perceiving that whipping did not answer her intention, which was entirely of a pedagogical nature, renounced the punishment for ever. The consequence of this taste of the Rod, administered by a woman's hand, was such that it is said he sought the company of young girls, and in their childish games--the favorite one was where they figured as school mistresses and asserted their authority by whipping him. His imagination brooded over the satisfaction of the senses which he had experienced under Miss Lambercier's Rod, and he imagined every young woman to be a schoolmistress or stepmother. When he was afraid to communicate his ridiculous wish to be chastised, he revelled in the thought of being under the lash of his mistress.
The master of a workhouse in England had to be dismissed for improperly whipping some of the female inmates who were under his charge. In 1841 it was complained to the magistrates of Rochester, in Kent, that James Miles, the master of the Hoo Union Workhouse, was in the habit of flogging the children, particularly girls of the age of twelve or thirteen years, with heavy birch Rods. After several meetings had been held and abundant testimony had been given that Miles carried on such a practice, the magistrates resolved to send him for trial at the next assizes. He was obliged to find bail in 100 pounds for his appearance. In a letter written by Mr. Tuffnell, assistant Poor Law Commissioner, published shortly after this decision, we find the following:--"The master has, as yet, had no opportunity or putting in any defence, the proceedings have been purely ex parte, and it therefore might seriously prejudice him on his trial where I to call upon him at present for his answer to the charges brought against him. There is one chief point, however, in this investigation that I think may fairly be brought before you, as I understand that it has never been the master's intention to deny it, and, in fact, it was openly admitted by his attorney in the court. I have therefore thought myself justified in taking his admission on this simple point--viz., the fact of his whipping female children. It is thus: I have been in the habit of whipping female children, but not often; I cannot say how often.' Knowing your views on this point, I think you will consider this admission as decisive of the question; for although I cannot find one person in a hundred who will agree in my opinion, that no corporal punishment should be permitted in schools, and that the alleged necessity for its existence is only a proof of mismanagement, I think every one will allow that, at least, there is no small impropriety in the whipping of girls by the other sex." Herewith a poem dedicated to the Birch:--
To Miss Lydia, a beautiful girl, on finding her in tears, on having received just before from her mother the severe birch discipline for a small transgression.
My charming lady, tell me why
That blubbered face, that wat'ry eye?
Whom lately, like a lambkin gay,
I saw so wanton skip and play.
Is little Beau, thy goldfinch, flown?
Or playsome kitten sulky grown?
Has frolic squirrel broke his chain,
And been sad author of thy pain?
Has saucy Tommy snatched a kiss,
Or done still something more amiss?
Has he through keyhole dared to spy
Thy taper leg or wat'ry eye?
These would not make my fair one grieve.
Nor her of wonted smile bereave;
Far sharper evils cause her gloom,
A Rod has been poor Lydia's doom!
In vain at mamma's feet she knelt,
Not less the tingling birch she felt;
How hard, mamma, must be thy heart
To make that lovely skin to smart!
Hence, baleful twigs! from hence depart,
Curst birch, that caus'd my Lydia smart,
May'st thou prove food for honest fire,
And there, though late, thy stings expire! * * * * CHAPTER ONE
Hilary Garner had been a liaison officer between English and American manufacturers during the First World War, and had devoted more of his energies to his own service than that of the war. By the judicial manipulation of patents and manufacturing rights he had slowly but methodically sold the cream of his native country's genius to an America engulfed in a war for survival and anxious to develop any technical advance not already being exploited by their own manufacturers.
Thus, at war's end, Hilary Garner was a name to be conjured with on both sides of the Atlantic. British firms desirous of doing business in the great economic paradise of the U.S.A. would as much consider overlooking Hilary Garner as they would consider overlooking the very Atlantic that lay like a bloated moat between them and the dollars that alone could ensure their personal return to the pre war life, that life that, if they didn't exercise their last ounce of ingenuity, would be just a sensual memory to be looked back on as they adjusted to the new world of Socialism and the emancipation of the new generation. And here might have been Hilary Gamer's greatest hour but for the simple fact that the Hilary Gamers of this world have to relax sometime--and in relaxing Hilary contravened some quite stringent laws of the State of California.
If he had defied the law in a reasonable manner (and the laws of America do have that sweet reasonableness so often not found in English law--hidebound by ancient definition and emasculated by tradition) there could possibly have been discovered a compromise acceptable to the authorities' conscience and Hilary's position as a man of very cogent affairs and almost lurid financial stature. But, above all, Hilary was a Garner, and therein lies the single glaring fact that his story is worth the telling.
From time (almost)' immemorial the Gamers have put themselves above the law. It all started with William, and for people like the Garners there is only one William. He was William the Conqueror and took what the British like to think was almost a day excursion to England in 1066. Probably without even knowing it he brought with him (in what capacity is still under discussion between the Garners and Debrett to this day) one Raphael Garnette, according to the Gamers, a knight, according to Debrett probably a foot soldier, i.e., a private, a poilu, a G.I. or even, and this is a sotto voce subject, a camp follower or common camp whore. Anyway, from almost the moment of the Garners' arrival at Hastings they were in trouble ... and almost exclusively woman trouble. The sex of the first Garner in England is a matter of dispute, as has been some subsequent variation from the strictly usual, but the sex of the second Garner is beyond dispute. He was a man, his name was Gilbert and he performed numerous acts of bravery which almost disassociate him with the Garner character for some long time after. However, the fatal character weakness of the clan must of needs have out and we find entered in an early Norman manuscript as executed for rape ... and rape not only of the women of the subject race, but of the wives of Norman commanders and the daughters of the sergeants of the troop. It appears that this must have entirely been unforgivable, for he was executed ... a fact that the long and easily traceable line of masochism and its half-sister sadism in the Garner history may have been tolerable and even pleasurable.
From this second, tragic, satisfactory and emotionally acceptable generation sprang the long, great and infamous line of Garners. They had the occasional setback that any family must have. There are traces of Garners being reduced (through gambling and the Garner fixation, woman) to their last thousand acres. But, by and large, they shine through history like naughty lights in an unsophisticated world ... until, that is, we come to Hilary.
Hilary had one undeniable qualification to be a Garner ... his father was a true Garner. His mother was a Garner, in a remote, diluted way. She was a cousin, four times removed, whose father had married a Scottish athlete of the Highland Games variety. True to the family tradition Hilary's father had led a life so completely licentious and morally unfettered that it was only by the complete self denial of his wife that Hilary had eventually been partly educated by spending three years in Oxford.
On coming down from Oxford he had found himself faced with three indisputable facts. His father was dying, his mother was dying in sympathy; and he was the sole beneficiary of his father's will which left him an interesting accumulation of debts of such a varied and improbably nature that half the creditors would not conceivably have the nerve to press their claims.
His mother preceded his father to the grave by three weeks, a matter of great chagrin for Hilary who would have liked to spare the expense of a double funeral. In order to live in the simplest manner he sold the Garner estate. This realised seven thousand pounds, and he placed the cheque in his bank on the last day of August, 1914.
A few days later he sailed for America.
From there his life is an open book. His first million (pounds--not dollars) late in 1915. His second million (after a tax struggle that led to a stampede of Americans to the British Embassy to change their nationality) in 1916. His third reputed to have arrived in 1917 and by 1918 he was on first name terms with anyone who would prove that they could sign their names to seven figure cheques (dollar or pounds, for Hilary was never a snob).
But in California he met his Nemesis. Her name was Eileen, she was a waitress and she not only insisted on dying at his ranch outside Los Angeles, but she insisted on reappearing from a nearby river, minus the generous lead collar that she had been provided with to assure her permanent withdrawal from enquiring society. It was her father, a tedious old fool, who drove a streetcar in San Francisco, who finally found a journalist who could listen to his paternal whispers as they vied with the hurricane like bellows of Hilary's dollars. And so a newspaper that needed a circulation campaign opened its literary guns on the person of Hilary. With scarcely time to transfer his funds to London, he was escorted aboard a troopship for England where he arrived in early 1919 and settled down in a penthouse in Park Lane and tried to adapt himself to an England emerging from war. It wasn't difficult.
Hilary Garner was a dark, suave man with smoothly sleeked hair and a rather sallow complexion. He was, perhaps five feet ten inches tall and spare, but with an almost feline way of moving and standing that suggested that he was a lot stranger than he actually looked. He dressed in almost an aggressively English manner, tweeds, woolen ties and check shirts and heavy English brogues that made a determined clatter as he walked. He smoked Turkish cigarettes in a long holder and had a thin, hairline moustache that you could almost fail to notice unless you looked for it. He was forty-two, but didn't look it. As we meet him now, in his luxurious penthouse with a glass of claret on the table at his elbow and with a candid, encouraging smile on his face and his long legs crossed over each other as he lolls back on his sofa listening to his distinguished visitor, we can realise that there is a grace in the man that doesn't make his wealth the only reason for his success with women. His visitor is an elderly man, fat, proper and stupid in appearance. He is talking to Hilary in a thick, somewhat unctuous voice.
"Then I can tell my ... er ... my friends that you would accept?"
"Most definitely, Sir Ronald, most definitely." "And you find the amount ... the arrangements ... satisfactory?"
"Well, acceptable," replied Hilary, cautiously. "Of course, to pay a cheque for...."
He was interrupted by Sir Ronald, who, flinging up one eyebrow and raising his hand:
"Please, sir ... Mr. Garner, no details in open discussion ... no details, please!"
Hilary shrugged. The result would be the same. He knew this would probably happen, but he hadn't been prepared for this senile, washed out old idiot. Well, he'd shown he'd got influence in the places that mattered ... was there any further use for him?
He looked at the old fixer thoughtfully. And Sir Ronald returned his glance.
Of course, there had been a lot of skeletons in the Garner closet, thought Sir Ronald.
To have a skeleton that just rattled was one thing; to have one that literally clattered like the castanets in a second rate type orchestra was another thing. But like a muted sax the Garner millions now laid a curtain of silence over the Garner foibles. He sipped his claret. How did you keep down a man like Garner?
After all, there was a background behind them and now this ... and he almost mouthed the words ... there were nine million reasons why he should be, accepted and each was a pound note. No! Garner would fit and he, Ronald Duveen would see to it that it was a snug cosy fit.
He dragged himself back to his host.
"I shall expect you at the party at Chesham that I'll throw as soon as the news is announced."
"At Chesham?" inquired Sir Ronald.
"Yes, Chesham Manor, my country place."
"My God, yes, there is a country place here somewhere. I remember reading about it when I was a kid. Some frightful orgy ... it was in all the papers."
"I beg your pardon," said Hilary.
"I was recollecting, Chesham Manor, a place of some renown. Your late father, I seemed to recall, made the place..."
He broke off.
"Somewhat notorious?" finished Hilary, with a thin smile that showed his even white teeth to perfection.
Sir Ronald moved uneasily in his chair.
"Well, I wouldn't say notorious, sir, well known is a better phrase, sir ... well known."
"Well," smiled Hilary, "we won't argue on words, Sir Ronald. Will you come to Chesham to celebrate my elevation to the title of knight ... and at the same time will you accept my assurance that your time will not be wasted and that my selection of your fellow guests, though primarily following my own inclinations will afford you the opportunity of forgetting, for at least one night, your position in, shall we say, accepted society?"
Somewhere deep in Ronald Duveen's buried memories stirred an idea. He twitched in his chair. "I'll be delighted, old boy, absolutely delighted!"