The Devil's Surrogate

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  'Now, Oona, you can let the birdie see what the nice doggie has for her. Come around so she can look at you, there's a good dog.'

  Isobel felt a sharp kick in her side and tried to look back at Jane, but the cording prevented her from turning her head very far, and the eye-slits deprived her of any periphery vision.

  'Wake up, slut-bird!' Jane commanded. 'Here, look up and see what the nice doggie has for you!'

  Blearily, Isobel peered out of her mask aware that a dark shape had moved around before her. She blinked, trying to focus on Oona, and then blinked again, this time in sheer disbelief. The dog-girl has a cock! her brain screamed even as all her mouth could manage was a whimper of horror. Oona, who had earlier been all too obviously female, was now all too obviously male, at least from the groin down. Isobel kept blinking, trying to see whether the organ now jutting so threateningly up before the dog-girl's navel was a trick, an artificial phallus strapped to her waist... but no, there was little doubt that it was real. It emerged from between the lips where normally a particularly responsive clitoris might appear, the dark-blue veins decorating it straining against the stretched and gleaming flesh.

  'My doggie is going to fuck you now, birdie.' Jane laughed. 'Her cock is going to skewer you good, too. I've seen her in action before and she'll outlast any man you care to name, won't you Oona, my pet?'

  The dog-girl growled on cue, but this time Isobel could have sworn the growl turned into a gratified chuckle.

  Crawley's remaining original assistant, Silas Grout, had taken charge of the proceedings on the green. There was no sign of his master as the newly recruited men dragged Harriet from the church, her eyes blinking in the harsh sunlight after her long stint in a gloomy crypt. They led her over to a position opposite the graveyard, where the curious execution platform had been set up beneath the tallest oak. However, it was still a few hours until sunset, the appointed hour for the hanging, and first there was the matter of Wickstanner's funeral.

  Grout - or perhaps the instruction had come from Crawley himself - had taken a certain amount of care to ensure that not only would Harriet have a clear view of the burial, but also that the villagers would have a clear view of her and her shame. A heavy post had been driven into the ground before which stood a trestle bench some three feet high. Onto this bench two men hoisted Harriet, and then Grout himself, standing on one end, took up a long staff which he passed through the crook formed in her elbow by the cuff holding her left wrist to the waist-belt. Pressing her back against the upright, he thrust the pole in further so it passed behind the post, and then grabbing her other elbow cruelly, he forced the wooden bar through the crook on that side. Now she was not only held against the post but her shoulders were bent back painfully and her naked breasts were thrust forward in an obscene parody of temptation. Harriet grunted, trying to shift her position to ease the strain, but it was impossible.

  'There now, you can show your nice titties off to all the world one last time,' Grout said quietly, so only she could hear him. He moved in front of her, the trestle so narrow he was forced to press up against her, and Harriet felt his hand grope between her thighs as he did so. To her utter chagrin, she realised her recent ordeal had left her sex wet and open, and she immediately tried to pull her thighs together. Grout, however, was having none of it.

  'Must let the good people see there's no devil's spawn hiding in there,' he hissed, jumping down onto the grass. He signalled to one of the men, who stepped forward holding two coils of rope. Within a matter of seconds they had snared each of her ankles and dragged her legs wide apart, tying the ropes to either end of the trestle.

  Tears stung Harriet's eyes, for she knew her plight would surely attract the attention of the people as they began gathering for the funeral. The men-folk might try to affect an attitude of piety for the benefit of their female relatives, but few would be able to resist staring at her nudity.

  Silas Grout was not quite finished, however. One of the new assistants had been despatched across the short span of grass separating Harriet's perch from the wagon, and he returned carrying a piece of board on which had been painted, in large red letters, DEVIL WHORE AND WITCH. Beneath this legend, in smaller print, had been added, Sentenced this day, by order of the Holy Church. A length of cord had been knotted through two small holes so the sign could be hung about her neck, and Grout held it up for her to read before doing so. He also, she realised, had made sure the board hung beneath her breasts and above her crotch, thus not affording her any modesty nor obstructing the view for the lascivious eyes that would soon be feasting on her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the horror of it all. The board bore no date and she shuddered as she realised it had probably been painted without one so it could be used over and over again. She wondered how many other terrified and mortally ashamed females had stood as she did now with this piece of wood hanging from their necks counting the minutes to their death.

  'There now,' Grout said, jumping down onto the grass for the last time and stepping back to look up at her. 'That should make sure anyone else in this place thinks twice before they start meddling with the dark arts.' He turned to the five men who had gathered in a half circle before Harriet. 'You lot had better make sure no one gets near her. Can't be too careful when it comes to witching, so make sure you're all wearing the crosses Master Crawley gave you. The whore's powers should be just about scourged from her, I reckon, but it's better to be safe than sorry, I always says.' He turned to Thaddeus Gilbert. 'You're in charge till I get back. Anything happens while I'm gone and it won't just be getting paid you have to worry about. I'm going to wet my whistle for an hour, but I should be back before they start lowering the vicar. Once that's over you bring the girl over to the tree, and I'll need a couple of you to help get her up onto that bit that sticks out under the noose there.'

  Harriet opened her eyes, and for the first time saw that there was indeed a rope hanging from one of the thick branches of the oak with a noose already tied and waiting. There also seemed to be another loop in it halfway up its length, but she was too far away to make out what it was exactly, or to understand its purpose.

  The hunt was approaching the end of its second hour, Guy Bressingham calculated, looking up at the position of the sun in the sky. Two hours nearly gone and he had seen not one sign of life, not even one of the other bird-girls.

  He paused alongside a fallen tree trunk that had been stripped bare of its branches and leaves quite recently, to judge from the freshness of the axe marks, and lowered himself onto it, relieved to take the weight off his feet, which were beginning to ache. He was not, he was forced to admit, used to such strenuous exercise; he rarely walked much further than the door of his carriage these days. He sighed, and bent to loosen his right boot.

  Isobel de Lednay could wait awhile yet, he decided. Her marker ribbon guaranteed that none of the other hunters would attempt to take her. His toes were throbbing, and a few minutes of freedom from the restricting boots would be more than welcome. There was also the small brandy flask in his belt pouch. A bracing reviver was the order of the day.

  He was about to kick off his first boot when the sound of rustling leaves made him look up. There, to his amazement, stood one of the other bird-girls. No, she wasn't standing; she was walking - walking straight towards him without fear.

  'Well!' he exclaimed, sitting up, 'what do we have here? A tired birdie maybe, or just tired of running around? I can sympathise with that, to be sure.' He stood up slowly, not wanting to startle the girl, who continued to approach him slowly. 'Decided to get it over with? Well, I can't say I blame you. It's inevitable anyway, and I'm sure you know that.' His eyes narrowed as he studied her. 'Ah yes,' he continued, 'I remember you, the girl with the big titties, and what a fine pair they are too.' She stood before him, staring mutely up at him through the eye-slits of her colourful mask. 'Well, there's no rule says I can't take two of you, I suppose,' he said, feeling the warmth from her body now, and t
he manner in which her large breasts were rising and falling was all too appealing. It was Isobel he really wanted, but then Isobel was his anyway. Meanwhile, he had this creature for the taking, and her attitude seemed to indicate she wanted him as much as he now wanted her. 'Somehow,' he said, placing a hand on each of her shoulders, 'I don't think I'm going to have to waste any time with all that trussing up nonsense, eh?'

  Isobel groaned as the head of Oona's male organ pressed against her labia and pushed it apart as easily as a hot knife passing through butter. Steel claws grasped at either side of her breasts, compressed and pushed outwards between her ribs and her thighs, but to her surprise, the dog-girl did not set about ravishing her with the sort of ferocity her demeanour led one to expect. Instead, she let Isobel feel the end of her throbbing shaft slowly settling within her, allowing her to anticipate the great length that would soon be thrusting in and out of her.

  'Good dog, Oona,' Jane said from somewhere behind them. 'Yes, just let her settle nicely, there's a good girl. My, but what artist wouldn't give his left arm for the chance to paint this picture?'

  Isobel was certain now that the innkeeper's daughter knew exactly who she was and was deliberately drawing out her humiliation. But did she also know just how her victim's body was reacting to its ordeal? She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, tried to ignore both the dog-girl's presence at one entrance to her body and the muscle-stretching leather dildo still filling her other orifice. She knew she should at least attempt to expel it now that the crotch-strap no longer held it in place, but why bother? There was nothing at all she could do to prevent what was happening to her, nor what was still to come. Jane Handiwell was going to enjoy every moment of this, so why, Isobel reasoned grimly, shouldn't she do so herself?

  As the long shaft finally began to glide deeper into her pussy, Isobel opened her eyes again, and with a groaning cry of exaltation, pushed herself backwards with all her strength the inch or so her bondage permitted. A moment later, as Oona withdrew halfway, and then slammed deep into her hot cleft a second time, Isobel was blinded by the first of what she knew was likely to be a very long sequence of climaxes.

  Silas Grout explained whilst miming the action of snapping a twig between his two hands. He had finished his second flagon of ale now and was waiting as the serving girl refilled it from one of the barrels behind the counter, his back to her as he faced his audience. There were about a dozen men in the taproom, and his monologue had caught the attention of them all.

  'We loop the rope up and tie it about with a length of thin thread which breaks when the witch drops, and lets her go on down till just before her feet reach the ground. Then the rope snaps tight. Dead in an instant, just like that!' He snapped his fingers to emphasise his point. 'Of course,' he continued, sniffing and wiping his sleeve across his mouth and nose, 'I reckon it'd be better to let them have their little dance before they choke, but Master Crawley is a kind Christian soul and hates to see unnecessary suffering.'

  'And what do you call taking the lash to a poor defenceless girl and stripping her of all her clothes and dignity?' Thomas Handiwell strode into the room through the door leading to his private quarters, pushed his way past the knot of drinkers, and stood squarely before Grout. 'Is that the work of a man who hates to see unnecessary suffering?' he demanded.

  Grout half turned, took up the flagon the girl had placed at his elbow, and shrugged. 'That's necessary suffering, that is. When Satan possesses a witch, then there's only one way to drive his evilness out of her, and that's with the lash. Then it's down to making sure the bastard has nowhere to lurk and try to claim her back when we've done. Tricky swine, the Devil, but then he's been that way since he tempted Eve.'

  'Nonsense!' Thomas bellowed. 'I know for a fact that the lord bishops decreed there were no such things as witches. This is all balderdash, and whatever work it is that you and your master are about, it's not that of the good Lord!'

  'No such thing as witches?' Grout lifted one eyebrow and looked slowly from left to right. The watching faces were all expectant now, anticipating a clash between the executioner's assistant and the innkeeper. 'No such thing as witches?' he repeated. 'Well, if that's so, what else could possibly have possessed your good vicar and ripped his head clean off his shoulders? I call that witchcraft or the devil's work by any other name.'

  There was a low murmur of assent.

  'The fool Wickstanner took his own life,' Thomas said evenly. 'He was probably addled with drink and guilt at being responsible for what's happened to that poor wench out there. The way I heard it, he jumped off a ladder with a rope about his fool neck and it was that tore his head off, not some supernatural monster as you'd like these poor fools to believe.'

  'Here,' said an indignant voice at the rear of the spectators, 'I don't like being called no fool.'

  'Then don't act like one, Josh Avery,' Thomas snapped, recognising the speaker without needing to turn his head. 'I had you marked as a man with some sense, and now I find you in here with this motley bunch, hanging on the every word of a man who's probably got more innocent blood on his hands than I've had hot stews.'

  'So, innkeeper,' Grout sneered, 'you take it upon yourself to decide who is innocent and who is not, do you? Master Crawley has all the proper warrants, and the authority of this and many other parishes to carry out God's work. So have a care, or else people here might think you're trying to blacken us just to save that witch, and then they might wonder just why a so-called honest innkeeper should be so worried about her. We already know she has the old woman and the miller's boy in league with her, and that they murdered a good and true servant of the Church, for which crime they'll answer in due course, I can assure you. Maybe you want to see your name added to that warrant as well?'

  There was a mixture of muffled laughter and mutterings indicating possible agreement, but Thomas was unmoved even though he knew there was little point in trying to interfere. If Brotherwood sent troops up from the coast, then maybe the girl's life could be saved, for he was certain Crawley and his cohorts were acting illegally. But meantime, these ignorant fools would not dare to back him against a man they believed was acting for the Church.

  On the other hand, there was something he could do, no matter how little the naked girl standing waiting to die would benefit from it. He reached out, and before Grout could react seized the flagon of ale from his hand and dashed it to the floor. 'Well,' he snarled, 'if you're so worried about my integrity, then I'm sure you wouldn't want to risk drinking in my establishment.' He kicked the flagon aside and it clattered against the base of the counter. 'So, you'd oblige me, master so-called hangman, if you'd take your custom elsewhere, for it's not welcome under this roof and neither are you!

  'And as for my name on any warrant,' Thomas continued, his voice icy, 'I don't think I'm the one who needs to worry about that.'

  'You know what's to be done.' It was a statement rather than a question. Adam Portfield knew his younger cousin, Daniel, had been involved in two of these special hunting events since his arrival at Grayling Hall at the beginning of the summer, and that his brother's eldest son was also a bright lad and a quick learner. 'Just take your time and use your eyes. Some of them don't bother staying around to wait for their catch to be collected, but they're at least supposed to get them to the side of the nearest path and tie one of the yellow markers somewhere easy to spot at the closet fork back this way. They should have put their own markers about the girls' necks, so go careful you don't pull any off by mistake.'

  'What if they don't have any markers?' Daniel grinned back at his cousin, the inference obvious in his expression.

  Adam shrugged. 'If they don't have a marker, then that's not your fault and there's not much you can do about it until we gets all the birds back here. Then they can sort it out amongst themselves, but there's not usually any problem.'

  'What if I find any still on the loose?' Daniel asked. 'Do I catch 'em and put 'em in the wagon with the others?' He nod
ded to the small wooden vehicle that stood, its patient horse grazing contentedly, by the side of the main path from the barn.

  'Best not,' Adam said, 'at least not until after the second bell, and then don't waste any time getting back here with what you have. Any that's still out there will come back soon enough after they've had a night out there with nothing to eat or drink. There's often one who thinks she's a bit smarter'n the others, but after the first time they try to get themselves picked up before dark.'

  'I thought most of this clutch were new girls,' Daniel observed.

  Adam nodded. 'Aye, that's true enough,' he agreed. ''Twas a mistake selling as many of the experienced ones as we did last month, but then his nibs insisted, and he didn't want to let down that French crowd. Something to do with their king's birthday, apparently, but it's none of my business.'

  'There's some promising ones from the past few days' intake,' Daniel said.

  Adam smiled, because the lad was already sounding like an expert. Indeed, he had shown himself to be well suited to the job here. Tall and well-muscled, even though the wiriness of youth was still awkwardly apparent in his movements, he could have had his pick of the women in any village, and Adam had noticed how the slaves here tended to watch him more closely than they did any of the other overseers. 'Well, we're going to have our work cut out, and no mistake,' he replied. 'I'm going to need to go up to London again soon and see if we can't find ourselves a few new suppliers' names. Business is looking up, especially with so many white slaves wanted for the Indies. It's going to be busy around here over the next few months.'

  'Fine by me,' Daniel declared, turning towards the wagon. 'The more we are, the merrier, as they say.'