The Taming of Josephine

A Quick Note:

Before you begin, those of you who have been following us (and by “us” I mean me) should know that the following story takes place in a setting outside of the usual Brentwood Society and ComPet world.  This alt-Britain setting, originally conceived of by Dave Potter, and introduced to me through the work of the writer cafterhomme, features many of the things you, the reader, has come to expect from my little corner of the internet: bondage and humiliation wrapped in manners, civility, and social hierarchy.  As cafterhomme puts it, the setting “celebrates womanhood as a possession, a work of art for the male gaze.”  While not featured in this first chapter, it also includes physical modification to the whims of a patriarchal society, which, while fun for some, is not fun for everyone!

Special thanks to cafterhomme for working with me on this project.  If you should read this and find it is to your taste, you may consider checking out some of his work, such as the now-complete series, Dollhood: A Woman’s Choice. 

Cheers!

Prologue

The lady of the house held her eyes on the pen fluttering along the monogrammed page, carefully composing each word in her head before uttering it clearly and eloquently as it was written.   

“My dearest niece, 

Words cannot express the sympathies I hold within my heart for your profound loss. My beautiful sister left for those wild American shores nearly two decades hence, and today, the sorrow grips me as it did then—my heart, it feels as though it has ceased its beat.

Please child, know that our doors remain ever open to you, especially in this time of need. The very notion of having an orphan in our esteemed family, whether she finds herself in Montana or Malay, is utterly unconscionable!  You bear the name Finney, but you can also be a Gainsborough.    

I implore you, come home to Heathfield Manor. It is here you may claim your ample inheritance and rightful place among the well-esteemed circles of our fair society. 

Your Aunt Emily,
Mrs. Hugh Gainsborough,
Lady of Heathfield Manor.”

The lady sighed and redirected her voice to her maid, “Thank you, Agnes.”  

The maid bowed her head in response and took the letter from the dictation machine, which had ceased its whirring of clockwork driving the scribe.

Naturally, she did not hold the pen herself.  For a woman of her position, such a thing would be preposterous!

The lady watched the maid fold the letter and slip it within its envelope — alongside fare passage across the Atlantic, first class on the finest of airships.  

Perhaps there was a time when she would have felt the impulse to hold a pen, to fold a piece of paper, or to stuff an envelope.  After decades in the elegant armbinder, she’d utterly internalised the essence and reality of leisurely life. Why even reminisce about her own scribbles when a finely-made device could do it perfectly? When a maid of the highest calibre could ensure the highest of standards?   

That maid sealed the envelope with a drop of hot wax and returned to her, “Ma’am.”

After giving the envelope and its address a once-over she nodded, as much as her proud neck corset would allow, “That will do, Agnes.”  

The maid nodded and placed the letter carefully in her left apron pocket.  Fished from the right pocket, she presented a soft, rubber peach in exchange.  The lady opened her mouth graciously and the maid carefully placed it inside.  With the simple touch of a free finger, the fake fruit automatically inflated, sealing the lady’s mouth, preventing further dictation.   

The Lady’s eyes smiled at her daughter, similarly trammeled and secure across from her in the fine sitting room.

It was done.

The Taming of Josephine

Chapter 1

In rural Wyoming, on the dusty, forgotten frontier, her parents had christened her Josephine Agnes Finney, but eighteen years later she introduced herself simply as “Jo.”  Yet ever since she arrived on their doorstep, her uncle, aunt and cousin had insisted on calling her “Josephine” no matter how many times she corrected them.  The simple misnomer was the most benign thing about their shocking behaviour, but it was also something tangible that she could hold onto, squeeze to her chest and hate. 

            Jo’s long, unbound mane of red, almost orange, hair flared out behind her as she stomped up the stairs in her heavy, leather boots; one of the myriad details her uncle had immediately eyed and scoffed at as "terribly unfeminine" upon her arrival. Her aunt too, high and mighty sitting on her lounger like a throne, had looked at Jo as if she was covered head to toe in mud. Jo couldn't believe their gall, or herself for even accepting their letter and travelling so far just to be looked down upon like a dried cowpie. 

Despite her spritely size she was able to slam her bedroom door shut with enough force to shake the pictures and nicknacks on the wall.  It was bad enough having lost both her parents to a freak accident less than a month before, but to find out that these people were related to her, and her only surviving relatives, was maddening. 

Why hadn’t her mother ever told her?

            Back in the states, she had heard stories about Britain, the so-called “hermit kingdom.”  Most of the tales, she had discovered in her short time there, didn’t have a lick of truth in them, all save one.  At the massive Mid-Atlantic Flotilla port, the mood all changed when she’d changed over from the American airship to a British one.  Suddenly everything became, for lack of a better description, politely oppressive.  So much so that Jo had stayed in her cabin for most of the flight to avoid the stares and patronising remarks about her clothes, or the way she walked about unescorted, or even her opening a galley door for herself. Maddening!

            Jo sighed with impotent irritation.  Where was her suitcase?  She had crossed the ocean with one small bag, preferring to travel light and having absolutely no plans for an extended stay.  She looked around the room.  It was a far cry from her somewhat austere room — by her own choice — back home in a windswept, little burg.  The walls were papered in pink rose print that made Jo want to vomit.  Though the wardrobe and chest of drawers seemed sturdy, the ruffles around the bed and the canopy suspended by its four white pillars elicited similar feelings of revulsion.  As Jo searched, she found no trace of her scant luggage, but she did find a massive vanity — which fit this family well — and a rather curious looking pole with a pair of silk cords hanging from the top. 

            “How in the hell am I supposed to ‘dress for dinner’ if my stuff is gone?”  She grumbled to herself.

            As if answering her question, the door opened.  Whoever it was hadn’t knocked.  Jo wasn’t surprised that her privacy was not respected, but Jo spun around with indignation to find herself facing one of the smartly dressed maids that she’d seen working in the background while she and her family were getting acquainted.  The maid was a middle-aged woman, tall, physically imposing, and simultaneously having a strange air of both dominance and submission about her. 

            “Miss Josephine.”  She curtsied politely and entered, again without waiting for permission.  Jo could see that there were two younger maids following closely behind.  They were less physically intimidating, but they both had at least a head of height on Jo's slight stature. 

            Jo crossed her arms.  “What do you want?” 

            The maid paused.  “Why, we’re here to dress you for dinner.”

            “Dress me?”  Jo scoffed.  “I can get dressed on my own, thank you very much!”

            The maid paused again, then looked back and whispered something at one of the others.  The younger maid scurried out of the room while the other two remained, smiling amicably at her scowl, and an uneasy silence filled the room.

“If you’re just going to stand there maybe you can tell me where my suitcase is.”

“I will check with the footman when we are finished here, Miss Josephine. Our dinner guests shall be arriving in only three hours, and we must assist you.”

“Three hours to get dressed, are you out of your mind?  I can throw on a dress faster than that, without a doubt!  Besides, I already told you, I don’t need any help.”

Moments later the younger maid returned with Jo’s aunt Emily and her cousin Gertrude, heels clicking behind heels.  Having just stormed out of their sight perhaps ten minutes before, Jo still found their appearances absolutely astonishing.  It wasn’t just the copious amounts of cloth that went into their suffocating dresses with their many shiney buttons, lacey embellishments, and interminable, full bustles. It wasn’t that Aunt Emily and Gertrude looked like near perfect copies of each other, like two dolls of the exact same make with one having rolled off the assembly a few decades earlier.  Both were tall, blonde, and shapely—the latter of which was accentuated by extremely tight corsets drawing in their miniscule waists.  Upon seeing them, Jo wondered how they even breathed, let alone ate while wearing them.  But it wasn’t their clothing or their similarities either, no; it was their “accessories.”  Both Aunt Emily and Gertrude wore strange contraptions which trapped both their arms into a sort of sleeve.  It bound their limbs behind them, making them quite helpless.  Though these arm binders seemed as flouncy as the rest of their ensembles, Jo sensed the lace and feminine patterned cloth concealed something…harsher.  Despite the absurdity of it all, Aunt Emily and Gertrude didn’t seem remotely bothered that they were walking around like armless mannequins.  On the contrary, they seemed just as disturbed by Jo’s freely moving limbs.

Aunt Emily gracefully entered the room on high heeled, immaculate white boots with Gertrude mincing anxiously behind her.  Aunt Emily turned to the older maid. “Was there something the matter, Agnes?”

Agnes curtsied low and glanced in Jo’s direction.  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Josephine has refused to allow us to dress her.”

Aunt Emily smiled.  “Oh she has?”

Jo waved sarcastically.  “Hey, I’m right here.  You can ask me yourself.”

Aunt Emily and Agnes glanced at Jo before continuing without any further acknowledgement. 

“Thank you for coming to me, Agnes.  I understand that this situation is unusual for you.  It’s unusual for all of us.”

Agnes curtsied again.  “Yes, ma’am.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Aunt Emily finally addressed Jo directly.  “Josephine, it’s clear that you’ve been through a great deal.  I know you must be tired from your journey, so it would be simply marvellous if you would be a good girl and place yourself in the quite experienced and steady hands of our maids—”

“No, thank you!”  Jo spat.  “Now bring me my things and get the hell out of my room!”

Aunt Emily, Gertrude, and the three maids all visibly coloured and stood in stunned silence. 

“Mummy did Josephine just…”

“Hush, darling.”  Aunt Emily stopped her.  “Josephine, we are trying to be patient with you.  We understand you’re disadvantaged and have not been raised in polite society. Our well-trained staff is—”

“Disadvantaged?" Jo put her hands on her hips.  Now just a minute!”

“Don’t interrupt, dear.  The fact is you are in polite society now, you are under your uncle’s roof, and while you are under his roof you will obey the rules of his society and his home.  Do I make myself clear?”

Aunt Emily’s voice never developed even the slightest edge, but Jo could sense a tempest brewing just beneath the surface of her aunt’s flawless makeup.  Still, she wasn’t intimidated in the least.  What could her prim, polite, well-mannered, trussed up aunt possibly do to her? 

“Stuff it, aunty!”

“Mummy, she said…”

“I know what she said, my little dove.”  Aunt Emily sighed.  “Agnes, take whatever measures necessary, but she must be ready for tonight.”

Agnes curtsied to Aunt Emily, and then nodded to the two younger maids.  Then the three of them advanced on Jo, who only smirked.  

“Do you really want to do this?”  She cracked her knuckles, but the maids were not deterred.  For all her attempts at looking menacing, she was still a skinny, undersized girl after all. 

They moved in on her from three directions like a wolf pack surrounding a stubborn little lamb.  Jo threw a punch squarely at Agnes.  It would have connected had it not been for one of the younger maids grabbing her legs and the other grabbing her shoulders.  With Jo struggling like an unbroken mare with a particularly foul disposition, they wrestled her to the ground, while Aunt Emily and Gertrude watched from just inside the door.  The maids held her firmly and allowed her to tire herself out for a few minutes of thrashing and cursing.  When her fighting inevitably subsided, Agnes ordered the maid closest to Jo’s feet to remove her boots.

When the worn work boots and the patched socks were pulled away, Aunt Emily remarked, “Oh, she has such charming little feet!  It’s too bad that they seem to have been spoiled by walking.  Agnes, make sure you apply the pumice stone liberally and use the balm to soften them.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Agnes replied. 

            “Oh, mummy, do they really let girls in the colonies just wander about and ruin their feet that way?”

            “I’m afraid so, dear.”

            “But why?”

            Jo shook in the grasp of the maids.  “Because in the ‘colonies,’ women aren’t just empty-headed playthings for men!  They’re—”

            Jo’s words were cut short by a hand firmly clamping over her mouth.  Agnes gave her a dangerous look.  “Don’t interrupt your aunt while she is speaking, Miss Josephine.”

            “Thank you, Agnes.”  Aunt Emily said. "Gertrude, my dearest, what's the first lesson of being a Lady?"

The bound girl lifted her chin and recited proudly, "A lady speaking out of turn will find herself not speaking much at all."

"That's right, dear!" Aunt Emily.  “Very good!  Now, to answer your question, men in the colonies don’t dote on their girls the way your father does with you and I!  They’re not protected and cared for like girls are here.”

            “Oh, that’s awful!”  Gertrude looked down at Jo, sympathetically.

            Jo snorted into Agnes’ palm.  If she hadn’t been so angry at her mistreatment, thoughts of how her own father had doted on her might have choked her with emotion.  His Irish lilt, cheering her on as she learned to run and ride far and fast… clearly the definition of “doted” differed on the other side of the Atlantic. 

The undressing continued.  While Agnes and the other young maid held her down, the third maid sat on Jo’s legs to keep her from kicking and began to unbutton her shabby-but-comfortable flannel shirt.

“Ah, her skin is so fair!  Not unlike fresh milk!” Aunt Emily gestured with her chin between Jo’s freckled cheeks and her pale belly.  “Why you’d never know from those sunspots across her face. Gertrude, do you see now why we aren’t allowed outside in the afternoon and why we always wear our full bonnets?”  

“Yes, Mummy!”  Gertrude chirped.  

Being particularly petite, Jo had always preferred camisoles to bras.  The one she was wearing had seen many washes and was almost translucent, but she did not appreciate losing the tiny amount of modesty it afforded her.  She shook her head and thrashed in the maids’ grasps as her perky, little pink-tipped breasts came into view.

Gertrude giggled.  “Mummy, she’s so little!”

"Don't tease, dear. I told you, your cousin is quite disadvantaged: lacking in education and the proper adjustments you had when you came of age. She has not been fortunate."

Jo looked up at the pair of ladies standing there, and realised by the mention of 'adjustments' that their substantial curves, above and behind, might not be just due to familial traits and some fashionable padding in those dresses.  Whatever her insecurities, she didn’t need anyone adjusting her.  

"I’m not a charity case, you witch!”  Jo snarled.  

Seemingly unperturbed, Aunt Emily asked the maid, "Agnes, why don't you introduce Josephine to a soother, a chamomile-flavoured one if we have any, and the lacing bar."

The maid was too busy corralling Jo to curtsy, but a dutiful, "Yes, ma'am," preceded Jo being dragged to that strange pole and its silk cords in the corner, her wrists being pulled up and into the soft, delicate, and unforgiving bonds before they were cinched tight and Jo was left stretched tall, half-hanging, half-supported by her tippy-toes.

Upon her next complaint, a soft beige ball on similar silk cord was shoved into her wailing mouth, and her sharp tongue found itself pinned down by the mass.  She salivated shamefully due to the saccharine sweet and foreign flavour that filled her mouth.

"Much better." Aunt Emily strode forth from the door, and let her critical eye wander the dangling young lady up and down whilst the maids wrung their hands and fumbled with her fraying blue jeans, mystified by the strange garment hugging her body. 

"Much too rough a fabric, it's like sandpaper, ma’am. And indecently revealing.”

Jo tried to kick at her tormentors as they yanked the jeans down her scrawny legs followed by her black, cotton underwear, but being pulled up onto her tippy toes by the silken cords she couldn’t balance properly, or get any force in it. In the end she only succeeded in making the bonds tighter around her wrists.  The soft ball — the “soother” — filling her mouth stifled her agonised cry as the blood was further cut off from her wriggling hands.  For a moment she was grateful for the humiliating device.  At least it prevented her aunt, cousin, and the maids from hearing, and getting satisfaction from, her scream in pain.  

“Oh, look at those skinny legs skittering about!  She’s like a newborn baby colt!”  Aunt Emily cooed and the maids chuckled.  

“Mummy!”  Gertrude’s eyes were the widest they’d been yet.  “Josephine’s…”  Her dumbstruck gaze was locked on Jo’s nether regions.  “Her…”  the girl’s voice dropped to just about a whisper.  “Her shame and her legs…it’s–they’re so—so hairy!  Are all girls from the colonies allowed to have hair down there?”

Aunt Emily nodded sagely.  “I can’t speak about all girls from there, but this kind of thing can happen if a girl doesn’t have someone in charge of her rose, Gertrude.  Now aren’t you glad that you have someone in charge of yours?”

“Yes, mummy!”  Gertrude chirped back and nodded emphatically without the slightest hesitation.  Jo could see her cousin's skirts swaying as the legs underneath rubbed together, probably imagining what it must be like left unshaved. 

The jeans and underwear slid past Jo’s slender, tussling ankles leaving the slender girl completely bare in front of the maids, her aunt, and her cousin.  Her cheeks burned not only with the embarrassment of being naked before appraising eyes, but with the helplessness of being strung up and tied as she was.  Yet no matter how much she wanted to, she did not close her eyes.  Instead she glared back with all the intensity she could muster.  Once again she resented the “soother” as it prevented her from voicing all the cutting remarks that flowed through her brain like a turbulent river, lapping at the dam in her mouth.  

As her struggles renewed, Anges shook her head.  “I think it would be best if we just bathed and shaved her here.  It’ll give her less opportunity to struggle.”  She looked at Aunt Emily for approval.

“Do whatever you think is best, Agnes.”  

Agnes curtsied.  “Thank you, ma’am.”

Unable to talk and unable to escape, Jo was relegated to merely observing whatever happened to her.  As a girl who had always gone where she pleased and done what she pleased, whenever she pleased, it was a terrible feeling to be suddenly so helpless, at the direction of someone who was supposed to be family.  She watched with dread as they approached her with a large enamel tub — or ‘basin’ — of steaming soapy water that smelled heavily of honeysuckle.  The heat of the water made Jo gasp and bite down on the soft ball in her mouth.  Clearly anticipating her intention to splash the hot water at them, the maids tied her ankles and attached them to eye hooks on either side of the tub.  Jo wondered if the hooks were an improvisation or if they were there specifically for the purpose of keeping protesting legs still.  The latter wouldn’t have surprised her in the least.  Then again, if her comically pliant cousin Gertrude was any indication, such things would probably be unnecessary.   

Once she got adjusted to the temperature of the water, Jo loathed to admit it, but the warmth felt good, especially after her long journey.  Not wanting to be drowned, she tilted her head back as they wet her hair and began to wash her lovely, red locks.  Whatever else she had to say about her treatment, the strong fingertips of the maid felt divine as they massaged her scalp.  She was almost relaxed when Gertrude’s buoyant voice cut in like a scalpel.  

“Mummy?”  She wrinkled her nose.  “Do you suppose the little tub will be enough?  She’s so smelly!”

“Don’t worry, my little dove.  It may take ten tubs to get her clean and smooth, but rest assured, Agnes and her girls are capable of handling the most troublesome of messes!”

Jo snorted at being referred to as essentially a “mess.”

The warm soapy sponges slid across her pale, freckled skin, cleaning away the dirt and dust from the road and any “offensive” odours.  Under Aunt Emily’s direction they took great care to scrub her thoroughly under the arms and on her “rose” and “bottom.”  Jo tried to think of anything but her current predicament as the squishy sponge rubbed back and forth between her legs, sliding against her most sensitive skin.  Since she’d become old enough to bathe herself, no other soul had touched her there, not even her farm boy, not even on their last night together.  She’d kissed him plenty of times, but she’d rebuffed him whenever he tried to get handsy with her.  Though she’d never admitted it aloud, she enjoyed the idea of doing something more with him, but Jo enjoyed the rush of teasing him—dominating him in her own way—even more than the desire for unknown pleasures.  

Jo’s eyes rolled back in her head and she felt herself going limp in her bonds under the onslaught of the sadistic sponge.  

“Why, I think the little strumpet is enjoying this!”  Aunt Emily said with astonishment.

Jo tensed and straightened.  

“Mummy, what is a strumpet?  What is she…?”

“Franie,” Aunt Emily said hastily to one of the young maids.  “Please take Gertrude to the lady’s sitting room and put on a program for her–no Tell Tales or Romances.”

The young maid curtsied, dried her hands and taking Gertrude’s bound arms, quickly escorted her from the room.  

“But what was she doing?”  Gertrude asked again as she was hustled away.

“Never mind that, my little dove!”  Aunt Emily called after her.  “Just enjoy your program!”

The moment the door closed behind her daughter, Aunt Emily’s face, slightly, almost imperceptibly, fell, and her voice lost just a hint of its sweetness.  She stepped closer to Jo.  The rapidly cooling water dripped from her moistened body.  Though the maids had stopped washing her most private area, she couldn’t help but still feel an embarrassing need between her legs.  She blushed with shame knowing that Aunt Emily and everyone else knew exactly what she was feeling.  

“Josephine, I admit my ignorance to what precisely is permissible where you are from, but here, young ladies do not show…desire during bath time!  Such things are for married ladies and even then, only when their husbands permit it!  When your…lower regions are being cleaned you must be quiet and still.  Think of something pleasant like a bed of beautiful flowers or a basket of soft kittens!”

Jo stared back at her.  Her embarrassment for herself had transformed into secondhand embarrassment for her aunt.  Just what the hell was wrong with this woman?  

“I hope you understand, my dear.”  Aunt Emily smiled brightly before telling Agnes, “I think she’s had enough scrubbing now.  She smells as sweet as can be, just like a proper girl!”

“Thank you, ma’am.”  Agnes said.  

“She’ll need the strongest depilatory, don’t you agree?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“It’s such a shame.  That one burns the most.  Still, we must make sacrifices for beauty!”

Jo’s heart skipped a beat at the word “burns.”  She didn’t know what a depilatory was as she was unfamiliar with so-called beauty products, and besides, she’d never really applied herself to reading and expanding her vocabulary.  She moaned into her pacifier and tugged against the silk cords, but the bonds grew slightly tighter and she stopped again.  She could only watch while Agnes donned rubber gloves and presented a glass jar, innocuously labelled “Modene,” which was filled with a thick, white cream.  A slight skunky smell overpowered the scent of the soap when Agnes opened the jar, which only increased Jo’s nervousness.  

The maid scooped a handful of the goop.  She paused for a moment as if weighing it in her hand, and then she slapped the whole glob on Jo’s abundant, soft orangish curls between her legs.  Jo gasped from the sudden shock of the cold cream against her bathwater-warmed intimate area.  

Aunt Emily said sympathetically, “Oh, I know it’s a little cold at first, kitten.  Don’t worry, it shall warm up in a moment.  Just sit tight and let it do its work.  You’ll feel a little uncomfortable for a while, but it’ll all be worth it.  I promise.”

Her aunt’s words did little to reassure her, and Jo braced for the promised discomfort.  True enough the cream did begin to warm, but the warmth quickly turned into heat.  It reminded her of the time she’d been coaxed into trying some homemade ghost pepper hot sauce at a barbeque.  The heat built and built until it became unbearable, right where she was most vulnerable!  Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she thrashed about in her bonds, forgetting that she was only tightening them further.  She squealed and pleaded for them to wipe it off, but the soother did its job well and she only succeeded in filling the opulent room with a muted blubbering.  

The other maid held her as Agnes applied the same awful cream to Jo’s hairy underarms and legs.  Eyes wide, her muffled begging did nothing to prevent the cycle from beginning again. Soon her whole body was on fire.  The pain was such that she could barely register her aunt’s gentle encouragement and consolations.  

Just as the pain started to dull, the maids thankfully rubbed the cream off with fresh, fluffy towels.  Jo hung limply in her silken bonds, covered in a sheen of sweat.  The smell of something like sulphur hung in the air, making the whole experience reminiscent of some country preacher’s version of Hell.  Through the slits of her eyes Jo looked down at herself.  Her body, scrubbed pink and completely hairless, seemed foreign to her.  It was an awful feeling, being so disconnected from her own body, but she was too weak from tensing and screaming to dwell on it.

“There, there…”  Aunt Emily cooed.  “You were a very brave girl!  And now look at you!  You’re nice and smooth now, just as a proper young lady should be!”

Jo mumbled a weak, half-formed insult into the gag and continued to hang as they scrubbed her down again to clean away the sweat and freshen up her scent.  Once she was dried with yet another fluffy towel, Agnes set to work on Jo’s hair with a curling iron while the other maids began to redress her, but unsurprisingly, not in her own clothes.

When one maid held up a pair of white, knee-length bloomers trimmed in eyelet lace and politely asked her to step into them, Jo’s first reaction was to refuse, but she reasoned even the ridiculous garment was better than being naked, so reluctantly she did as she was told.  Her skin was still warm from the bath and extra sensitive from being so recently denuded of all hair, yet the Egyptian Cotton drawers were soft and cool, making her shiver.  The camisole matched the bloomers in material and in style.  Jo wondered how they were going to put it on her with her hands bound above her head, but quickly noticed the straps were actually ribbons that tied at the tops of her shoulders in neat bows.  She shivered again as the luxurious fabric brushed and teased her pointing, pink nipples.  Not wanting to show “desire” while being dressed, Jo bit into the soother and willed herself to be still, but she sure as Hell wasn’t going to think about flowers or kittens!  It wasn’t really “desire” anyway, just a natural reaction to soft fabric brushing against sensitive areas.  No one would have called shrinking and giggling from a tickle “desire,” now would they?     

            Finally being permitted a touch of modesty was a relief, even if it came with more ribbons, hooks, buttons, and laces than she could have ever imagined.  That relief began to dissipate as more and more garments were added, burdening her in both mind and body.  First of which was a corset, brought by a returning Franie and sprang open like a bear trap upon the bed once its box was opened and the tissue paper pulled away.

            “Now, my little twig,” Aunt Emily smirked, “let us do what’s within our abilities to make your shape more suitable for the eyes of good company. I’d say you were a boy if not for seeing you bare just moments ago!” 

            Aunt Emily ignored Jo’s huff of indignation to turn away and address her staff. “You fetched this from the attic, Franie?”

            “Yes, ma’am. I know it is three seasons out of fashion, but the Lady Rothbury left it on her last visit. None of my lady’s or the young mistress’ would ever—”

            Agnes eyed her lesser to hush about tainting the Ladies’ clothes with this foreigner and continued. “The vicar wasn’t keeping his wife with the latest customs, just the queen’s mandate. Few adjustments or bestowals; a natural frame. Night stays would be too permissive for the gown. We thought it the only option, ma’am.”

            Aunt Emily, seemed to tut tut, admiring the curve of the corsetry, its steel boning and fine silken fabric. It was as close to an inspection as the Lady of the manse might get without free arms to pick it up herself. “Quite right.” she nodded for the maids to proceed and turned back toward her niece, “Even so, you’re going to need padding for the bust, and a prayer, but you leave me no choice, arriving so unprepared in bosom and baggage!”

Even as the maids giggled and winked at her flat chest, Jo gave a start when she felt the rigid boning of the corset pressing against her ribs, the front clasps hooking together so the weaving behind could be adjusted more finely. She almost fooled herself into thinking that the end, but the strong-armed ladies maid Agnes tugged on the laces and the pressure increased, hugging her tighter than a bale of hay.  The trap was beginning to close.  Jo wanted to hurl obscenities from her occupied mouth, yet only gasped as the air was forced out of her.  

“Don’t fret, the bar is doing most of the work, like stretching taffy. Try to push all the air out, Josephine,” Aunt Emily coaxed.  “And imagine how lovely you’ll look!”

Jo made an indignant noise behind her soother.  How exactly was she supposed to live without air?  The corset tightened with another hard jerk on her strays, and Jo no longer got to choose to push the air out.  It was forced out.  

The cinching stopped for a moment and Agnes declared to Aunt Emily, “Her little waist is as defiant as she is!”

Aunt Emily tittered.  “The poor thing.  I don’t imagine she’s ever worn proper stays before…still, try to reduce her another inch.  I want her to look as fetching as possible for the young Lord Cavendish!”

Jo wondered who the young Lord Cavendish was and why Aunt Emily wanted her to look “fetching” for him, but her thoughts were interrupted when Agnes took hold of her stays as if she were grasping a horse’s reins.  Jo thought she felt her ribs breaking as the tortuous garment constricted again, pressed in on her from all sides.  Tears came to her eyes, but Agnes wasn’t done.  The maid placed her boot on Jo’s tailbone and pulled the corset tighter still!

Panicking like a foal caught in baling wire, Jo tried to breathe, yet couldn’t! Every intake of breath met resistance from her gag, then her diaphragm, until she was a hyperventilating mess, pulling on her wrist cuffs as the laces were tied off behind her. 

Agnes said something about “inches”…

She couldn’t…

A sharp smell wafting from a maid’s passing hand roused her from her swoon.  Jo’s eyes focused on the face of her aunt, who wore an expression akin to concern.  

“It's just smelling salts, my dear.  Focus.  Now, then, breathe like I do, with your chest, not your waist.  Honestly, what do girls in the colonies do when they faint?”

Jo watched her loathsome aunt demonstrate short but measured breaths, which caused her ridiculous breasts to rise and fall dramatically above the bustline of her dress, as if that was the most common sight to see. Yet Jo realised her current frantic pattern would only bring her to faint again and again, so locked eyes with her aunt not in anger, but desperation, breathing in sync, finding a new rhythm. Short, shallow, weak.

How did they live like this?  

“That’s it!  Now you’re breathing like a proper young lady!”  Aunt Emily praised.  “I would expect nothing less of a girl of our shared lineage! Your grandmother, rest her soul, held a tightlacing record in the county seat for five years straight. Never mind that your great-grandfather was the Lord.” she giggled in a way Jo loathed.

The camomile flavour of the soother had faded, but the elegant silk and lace wrapped cage pressing against her chest did more to calm — no, crush — her spirit than the soother ever did.  Jo was too focused on her breathing to even think about responding to her aunt’s praise, or to struggle as the maids finally untied her from the bar.  She moaned as the blood returned to her numb hands.  The exertion caused her to breathe heavier.  It was only with her aunt’s careful guidance that she was able to bring her breathing back under control as the feeling returned to her finger tips.  

Jo stood shakily between the two younger maids while Agnes fastened a “bust pad” over her chest and then tucked the bottom neatly into the top of the corset.  This was followed by another larger pad being tied around her waist and left to rest high on Jo’s behind.  

Her aunt looked her up and down.  “Wonderful, that will give the illusion that she has some shape!  Now, Agnes, the dress…”

Agnes brought out the dress as she was bid.  Jo wondered how she would manage to carry so much material on her small frame, while unable to draw a full breath.  For a passing moment she felt respect for the incredible endurance that her aunt and cousin must have had.  The feeling only lasted for a moment, however.  If they really had strength they would have fled this madness the same way her mother had.  

            The colour wasn’t so bad, Jo liked blue.  Everything else, however, was a disaster.  

The long skirt reached Jo’s ankles, combined with the voluminous, white petticoats, she felt as if she were trying to walk through waist-deep mud.  The large bustle behind her made her feel clumsy and disproportionate.  Coupled with the corset and the high heeled boots that she teetered on uncertainly and made her lean dramatically forward, Jo thought she resembled a snail.  Despite all the prim and proper praise from the other women, she felt anything but beautiful.  The bodice was tight, emphasising her tightly cinched figure, and making her midsection feel even more trapped than before.  Her pale shoulders were bare and her small breasts were compressed and shoved upward in such a way that made her appear as if she would be ejected from the gown at any moment.  Jo was used to hiding her slight curves beneath baggy clothing.  Seeing her figure exaggerated and out on display made her feel somehow more vulnerable and naked than she had during the bath.  

            “Oh, just marvellous.  What a transformation!”  Aunt Emily practically applauded with her voice.  “I’m certain Gertrude’s old glove will fit her, Agnes. 

            Jo wondered why her Aunt had only said ‘glove’ in the singular, but turned to see Agnes approaching with one of the strange sleeves with the straps.  As she’d suspected, beneath the soft, delicate, lacy exterior there was an inner sleeve of unyielding leather, lined with rigid boning like the corset.

Despite knowing how pointless it was, Jo begged her Aunt not to make her wear such a thing.  The soother reduced her pleading to blubbering, making her sound more pathetic.  Without a full breath or stable footing, her attempts to keep the maid’s hands off her wrists were fruitless.  Jo found tears in her eyes again, born of frustration, fatigue, and even fear.  The device looked awful to wear, even worse than the bone-crushing corset.  

Aunt Emily cooed at Jo while they slipped the sobbing girl’s arms into the binder.  “Look at me, a monoglove is quite standard among us ladies! There will be a little discomfort, my little twig, but just think how elegant you’ll look once your wings are secured and no longer flap about so wildly!”  

Jo’s tears flowed down her cheeks as her arms were wrenched behind her.  Her fingers found a pocket of soft silk inside, and slipped all-too-easily into sections around a soft ball not unlike the one she was biting down hard on. Jo imagined the hundreds of times her cousin’s hands must have slipped inside and held that soft impotence with only a smile and a thank-you-very-much, and shivered.

As with the stays, ever-tighter lacing was the anchor, pulling her elbows together, shoulders drawn back dramatically, enforcing a certain posture which thrust her meagre chest forward. The loss of freedom was almost as bad as the immediate pain in her shoulder blades.  As if a knot wasn’t enough, the maids efficiently secured her with white, lace embellished straps over her shoulders, buckled to keep the monoglove from slipping down, trapping her. The dress came with a matching cover that slipped over the leather, the buckles, the minor embellishments, so the ornate shimmering sky blue of her dress seemed to ensnare the entirety of her up to the shoulders. 

Once Jo was fully bound and trammelled in what these limey assholes kept calling a ‘dinner gown’, they added a few finishing touches.  Her formerly free red hair had been tamed into neat, tight sausage curls secured with white ribbons tied off into large bows.  After they’d dabbed her tears away, a pale foundation was applied over her face to hide her “imperfections” and rouge was liberally applied over snow white cheeks giving the impression that she was permanently sheepish and shy.

“Just lovely!”  Aunt Emily applauded the maid’s and Jo’s dramatic transformation with her voice alone.  “Now, there’s just one more thing and you’ll be ready, my dear!”  

Jo let out a long, exhausted sigh. 

What else could there possibly be to add?