By Jane Austen and Lisabet Sarai
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to
Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the
ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and
be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it
had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton's looks also received
the due share of censure.
"They aimed at wounding more than
Harriet," said he. "Emma, why is it that they are your
enemies?"
He looked with smiling penetration;
and, on receiving no answer, added, "She ought not to be
angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be. To that surmise, you
say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to
marry Harriet."
"I did," replied Emma, "and
they cannot forgive me."
He shook his head; but there was a
smile of indulgence with it, and he only said,
"I shall not scold you. I leave
you to your own reflections."
"Can you trust me with such
flatterers? Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your
serious spirit. If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you
of it."
"I do own myself to have been
completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him
which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced
of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange
blunders!"
"And, in return for your
acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that you
would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.
Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is
totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl –
infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a
woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I
expected."
Emma was extremely gratified. They were
interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to
begin dancing again.
"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway,
Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing? Come Emma, set your companions
the example. Everybody is lazy! Everybody is asleep!"
"I am ready," said Emma,
"whenever I am wanted."
"Whom are you going to dance
with?" asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then
replied, "With you, if you will ask me."
"Will you?" said he, offering
his hand.
"Indeed I will. You have shown
that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother
and sister as to make it at all improper."
"Brother and sister! no, indeed."
In truth, he held her far closer than
Emma would have thought proper, had he been anyone other than the
dear friend of her father whom she had known from childhood. When his
hand meandered from her shoulder down the stretch of her back bared
by her decolletage, she attributed this familiarity to the excitement
of the dance, for the orchestra had struck a lively rhythm with this
second set, quite in contrast to the sedate and graceful measures
that had characterized the earlier hours of the ball. Her quickened
breathing and rapidly beating heart she likewise blamed on the
quickness of their steps.
His hand drooped lower still, until it
rested upon her hip, though his manner was still so casual that she
could scarcely credit him with being aware of his impropriety. Emma
glanced about at the other couples on the dance floor - Mr. and Mrs.
Elton, the Westons, Jane Fairfax in the arms of Frank Churchill,
Harriet led by Mr. Cox – and reassured herself that all their
attentions were fully engaged with their partners. No one appeared to
have noticed Mr. Knightley's most unaccountable brazenness.
His fingers padding at her flesh burned
like a brand through her gown and petticoat. She gazed up at him in a
silent question, searching the dignified and noble face so familiar
to her, and so dear. A wild light flared in his eyes while his smile
conveyed a most unexpected hint of mockery.
“Are you unwell, my dear Miss
Woodhouse? Your complexion has gone quite pale.”
She sagged against him as something
like a fever rushed through her. An odd protuberance prodded her
torso, noticeable despite the stiffness of her corset. “I – I'm
not sure. I do feel somewhat faint.”
“Let me escort you to the garden. The
evening air is bound to revive you.”
Her normal equanimity most seriously
disturbed, Emma allowed him to lead her away, although she could feel
the curious eyes of the other guests following them. His hand
encircled her waist as he drew her away from the brightly illuminated
ballroom, through the double doors to the terrace. After seating
himself upon a wrought iron bench, he pulled her into his lap.
“Mr. Knightley! Sir! Whatever are you
doing?” Her efforts to resist were feeble, for the sake of form
only. In fact, she craved nothing more than to feel the heat and
hardness of his man's body against hers. For once, Emma could not
deceive herself. Despite her shame, her conscience could not conquer
her far more urgent desire. His lips were mere inches from hers while
his bold hands clasped her thighs with breathtaking force.
If he should kiss me, Emma thought, I
shall indeed faint away, but if he does not, I doubt I can bear the
disappointment.
The moment of silence drew out, until
Emma was convinced her companion was deliberately prolonging her
agony. At last he released a laugh, so bold and harsh that it made
Emma wonder if he'd gone mad.
“I've changed my opinion, Miss
Woodhouse, about your disastrous matchmaking. I've come to the
conclusion that you are far more likely to mend your ways if you
receive a bit of chastisement.”
Without waiting for a response, he
flipped her over his knees and began to draw her skirts up her legs,
exposing her sky-blue stockings. Emma kicked and struggled, sending
her kid dancing slippers flying into the shrubbery.
“Wait! Stop! What are you doing?”
He had flung her dress over her head and was now parting her
petticoat. Almost before she realized what was occurring, he had
bared her bottom to the cool night breeze.
“What your father should have done
long ago. You have been pampered and indulged for far too long, Miss
Woodhouse. It's well past time that someone take you in hand, and by
Job, I'm the man to do it.”
Searing pain flashed across her tender
buttocks as his palm landed, hard and true. Her cry echoed through
the garden, scarcely muffled by the fabric swaddling her head. With
his second, even more ferocious blow, her voice rose to a keening
wail.
“I'd advise you to be quieter, Miss
Woodhouse, if you want to retain your reputation as a paragon of
polite society here in the parish.”
“Please stop, sir! I'll keep my
imagination in check in the future. I promise.”
“A promise is better sealed with
flesh and blood, Emma.” He rained more blows upon her poor naked
bottom, each one seemingly more excruciating than the last. Sensible
to the truth of his recommendations regarding noise, she bit her
knuckles and tried to stifle her cries.
As the spanking continued, Emma noted
a change in her own reactions. The fiery sting in her bottom kindled
a strange sensation in the secret recess between her thighs. The
conflagration seemed to spread, heating and then melting her female
core. The tingling there reminded her of dreams she'd deliberately
pushed out of her mind, visions she had been ashamed to consign to
her journal – visions which, she now recalled, had featured the
person presently abusing her. He was right to punish her. She was
vain, silly, willful, and now, it appeared, consumed with lust as
well.
With a calculated degree of stealth,
she parted her legs to create a wider gap between them, hoping to
lure her tormenter into touching her there, in that sensitive spot
she dared not name. A hunger such as she had never known seized her,
an unbearable emptiness that she knew could only be assuaged by the
man who held her in thrall. Surely, he could not help noticing her
moist offering, yet he continued to spank her, ignoring her silent
plea. Emma moaned, nearly overwhelmed by sensation and need. Would
she have to abase herself to the point of begging?
****
About a month ago, Total-E-Bound, one
of my regular publishers, triggered a media firestorm when they
announced the launch of their new Clandestine Classics imprint.
Clandestine Classics are pastiches which augment time-honored and
beloved works like Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, A
Study in Scarlet, Anna Karenina, and Northanger Abbey
by adding explicit sex scenes. “Risqué
remakes” is how the publisher bills these books. The objective is
not to retell these favorite stories in an erotic way, but rather, to
take the original text and expand it – to flesh out (literally) the
romantic relationships implied in the original, or hidden behind
closed doors.
I was
invited to contribute a volume to the launch. I declined. At the
time, I felt something close to outrage. All the targeted books are
works in the public domain, so officially at least there are no
copyright issues. Nevertheless, to me, the process felt like a
desecration of something sacred - like we were robbing these authors
by modifying the books that define their legacy.
Not
all the books on TEB's list would be considered masterpieces, but
many fall into that category. How incredibly arrogant to believe that
a gaggle of romance authors can successfully hack into the prose and
the story in order to “seamlessly” insert scenes that don't fit
the tone or the intent of the book in the least – even if they
succeed in capturing the language! In general, I don't have any
problem with pornography – it has its place and its purpose – but
this effort to pervert the classics (in a literal sense) struck me as
exploitative porn of the worst sort. In their solicitation, the
publisher promised that Clandestine Classics would boost sales for
all of TEB's titles. I wasn't sure I wanted to be associated with a
publisher that felt comfortable adding raunchy sex to Macbeth.
I
urged the publisher not to go ahead with this plan. I anticipated
that many readers would share my sense of violation at seeing their
favorite books boulderized and “sexed-up”. It seemed to me that
the negative publicity would far outweigh the benefits of any sales.
I was
wrong. Total-E-Bound anticipated the vituperative attacks of both
moralist and literary types; they viewed the controversy as a
marketing opportunity. The week the Clandestine Classics project went
public, Total-E-Bound was all over the news – in blogs and forums,
in print media, on radio, on television, in the United Kingdom where
the company is based and in the U.S.
As
time has passed, I've calmed down a bit. For one thing, I've listened
to the excited chatter of the authors who've participated in the
effort. They've picked books that personally excite them. M/M romance
authors finally get explore the possible sexual relationship between
Holmes and Watson. Writers who grew up mooning over the attraction
between Rochester and plain Jane now get the chance to make their
teen dreams graphic. These authors treat the process very much like
fan fiction – although there's a big difference in that fan fic
rewrites the characters' stories, rather than grafting sex into
existing books.
If
someone decided to take one of my stories and “augment” it by
adding sex scenes (unlikely as that seems), I'd be furious. I'm a bit
surprised that the contemporary authors who have contributed to the
Clandestine Classics don't realize they're doing the same thing to
someone else's masterpiece. Does it really matter that the author is
dead? I concluded that, among my author colleagues at TEB at least,
mine was a minority view.
I
also came to understand that I'm hopelessly old-fashioned. In this
world of digital content, nobody seems to be upset by “mash-ups”
that throw together ideas or expressions in ways never envisioned by
the creators. One reason it's so difficult to combat piracy of
digital content is that many people – perhaps the majority of
individuals who have grown up in the Internet age – believe that
content should be free of restrictions, that anyone and everyone
should have the right to excerpt, quote, condense, and perhaps,
insert his or her own “contributions” to the material.
Total-E-Bound is sticking strictly to the law – in fact the
Sherlock-Holmes-derived Clandestine Classics can't be sold in the
United States due to some sort of trademark issue – but the spirit
of the imprint has much in common with people who create play lists
or videos by munging together content they happened on and liked,
whether they “own” it or not.
Anyway,
for this topic at Oh Get a Grip, I thought I'd take a stab at a bit
of pastiche myself. It proved to be as difficult as I had expected -
simply finding a good spot to insert a sex scene was hard, given that
most of Emma
is polite conversation – but quite a bit of fun too. I don't intend
to take this any further, though, and I sincerely hope that Jane
Austen isn't turning over in her grave.
At
least I gave her first billing.
