“Well spoken, Goodwife,” smiled Goodman Plow. He is a young, rosy-cheeked farmer with broad shoulders and warm brown eyes. His glance strokes my breasts, my hips and my buttocks like an exploring hand. I know that I must cooperate with the investigating committee if I want to prove myself a decent woman who would never dabble in witchcraft. Otherwise, the remains of my stubborn pride will be taken as a sign that I am being strengthened by the Devil.
“See how she blushes,” remarks the deacon, licking his thin lips. Even his peaked hat shakes with indignation, or some other feeling. “She is wanton.”
“Wicked,” chimes a feminine voice.
“Led astray by the source of her shame,” adds Farmer Plow, studying the triangle of brown curls between my thighs. He rubs his own crotch with a weathered hand. He glances at the deacon.
Without another word, the men each grasp one of my butt-cheeks, lift me by my shoulders and sit me on the edge of the table. “Spread your legs, wench,” growls the goodman. His voice is huskier than before.
If I spread my legs for their penetrating eyes, they will see how wet I am. “Please, sirs! Madam,” I beg. “Have mercy on your humble servant. You have already troubled my weak flesh enough.” I press my thighs together, trying to hide my hot and swollen female parts.
The deacon and the farmer pull my knees apart and hold them open so that the goodwife can look at my slit and tickle it with her nimble fingers. She is known for her skill with a needle. I shiver as I imagine the pricking to come.
“Are you a good wife to your husband?” The farmer’s baritone voice betrays his desire to reach deep inside me to discover my innermost fancies and passions, my failings and my deep-red sins. “Do you serve him faithfully as a helpmeet sent to him by God?”
I do not know what to say, so the goodwife prompts me. “Lying will not profit you now, little minx,” she sneers. “We will find out the truth.”
My armpits prickle with fear. “My husband left me!” I wail. This sounds dishonest, even to my ears. “We agreed to part over a year ago,” I explain. “How can I faithfully serve a man who no longer lives with me?”
I despair of explaining my marriage to these examiners. My husband Prosper and I were like brother and sister in our childhood; after being free companions for so long he could no more find it in his heart to change into my lord and master than I could become his dull and obedient servant.
Prosper and his beloved friend Daniel bought an inn which, fittingly, prospered well enough to support all three of us. None of us foresaw that my husband’s departure would put me in danger, as a lone woman too likely to wander in wild places where ungodly spirits lie in wait. Even in this Year of Our Lord 1693, there is much unknown territory in the world, and most especially in the colony of Massachusetts.
I cast my eyes down like a modest woman, and see that the trousers of both men are stretched enough to split their seams. “Neither a wife nor a maiden nor a widow,” taunts the deacon. “Ripe for seduction by the Evil One.”
I would willingly surrender to Satan to protect Prosper from being hanged for sodomy.
Goodwife Green has found my little button, and she is rolling it between her fingers. I cannot sit still or keep silent. She slaps the sensitive skin on my inner thigh, and the sound seems to echo in the room as the sting echoes in my flesh. “Strumpet!” she proclaims. “If this excites you, we must find better ways to examine you. Ways that will mortify even your self-indulgent nature.”
“She is accustomed to a man,” observes Farmer Plow. “Her womb is empty, and she is rank with frustrated desire.” The earthy smell of my exposed quim is inescapable. All of my skin is damp with sweat.
“She is worse than that,” retorts the woman who glows with pleasure, knowing that, in this one instance, she has power. “This one responds to a woman’s touch,” she brags. She pinches my upper arm hard enough to make me jump. She chuckles. “She would give herself to a female husband. She will not confess it in words, but her body speaks for her.”
She wants to bring me to surrender, but the men are not willing to stand by and watch. “Lay her on the table,” orders the farmer gruffly. “I must explore her womanly parts to make sure she is not hiding anything from us.”
The woman looks at him as if he were her naughty little son. “You mean you want to ravish her like a bull in rut,” she corrects him. “Brethren, we must be as patient as ants, doing our private but necessary work in tiny steps, all as soldiers in one invincible army. Our reward will be greater if we are thorough. We must not overlook any part of her sinful body, and we must not gratify her greedy soul.”
Deacon Jones grunts in approval. The goodwife continues: “Look at her now, panting like a mare in heat and spilling her vile juices on the clean wood of this table. Are we here to satisfy her or is she here to answer us?”
Goodman Plow is restless and angry, but he can see that he is outnumbered. I watch his inner turmoil as he reminds himself that the committee must work as a team if they want to get results from an examination. I also know that if he cannot find an excuse to release his seed soon, he will want to make someone sorry. I can guess who that will be.
Deacon Jones seems aware of the younger man’s mood, and that it must be given an outlet before the three committee members fall to bickering. “Judicious use of the birch,” points out the deacon, “is good for wayward women like this. It softens them and makes them more forthcoming as well as more respectful.” He smiles at me like a sinister version of a loving grandfather. “Goodman Plow, will you do the honors?”
The goodwife strides briskly to the far wall, where a bundle of birch twigs, neatly tied at one end, hangs from a hook. When she returns, she places it in Farmer Plow’s outstretched hand. She seems pleased with herself for having found a way to punish a man she considers crude, as well as me. “Up, girl,” she orders, “on all fours like the she-beast you are.” With quick slaps on my behind, she positions me on the table. “Now, Goodman,” she sparkles, “you may spur her to a standing gallop.”
The farmer looks as if he would like to drive her out of the room with his twig broom or even his riding crop, but he does not dare. I cannot help enjoying Goodwife Green’s clever strategies for controlling men, even though I know that all such thoughts will soon be driven out of my head.
“Put your head down on your arms, girl,” the farmer growls at me. “Show me a clear target.”
Swish, whack! To survive the pain, I focus instead on the pleasure that reaches my neglected, swollen cunt as the first sting spreads through my flesh, fading as it goes. Swish, whack! The second blow follows too quickly and violently after the first. Fear rushes through me like ice-water. The farmer’s strong arm is propelled by anger; the pain can only get worse as each strike of the heartless twigs adds to the sting of the last. Tears flow from my eyes and wet my arms as my wailing rises.
“Enough, Goodman Plow,” advises the deacon. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for his unexpected chivalry. “The signs of her penitence are a pleasure to see, but she is not truly fit for the birch. She has not been well-trained in that regard, but we have made progress and we must press on while she is willing to tell us what we wish to know.”
Rising up slowly, carefully touching my sore bottom, I look around and see that the farmer has already pulled off his trousers to release his thick red cock, which seems to be pointing at me. “Brother and Sister,” he addresses them, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “we are three and she is one frail woman, barely as heavy as a sack of feathers. Yet she could still be hiding all manner of talismans in her natural places of concealment, which are yet to be examined. At the very least, she is as filled with illicit pleasure as a spoiled pig is filled with corn. You must allow me to do my duty as a man.”
“Roger, plow her well,” advises the goodwife. “She needs the release as well as you – but then the examination must continue.”
Farmer Plow lays me on my back, and I wince as my tender bottom touches the cool, smoot
h wood of the table. His eyes burn into mine as he crawls over me, holding his stout truncheon in hand. “Beautiful temptress,” he sighs, brushing damp hair off my face. I am so surprised by his gentle manner that I am tempted to start crying again. “Any man would want you. You could inspire sin without measure – but luckily, you are in our hands now.” He pushes his cock steadily into me. I love the feeling, but I try to resist giving in to it.
I know that if I scream in release in the presence of three good churchgoing witnesses, I will probably be condemned as a witch at my trial. All three of them hold me down as the goodman withdraws from me part way so that he can plunge back into my cunt, filling me without mercy. His rhythm increases in force, and I move with him. I feel as if my quim is filled with liquid fire. I study the beams in the ceiling, and try to think innocent thoughts.
Two long, bony fingers knead my breasts as if they were loaves of bread. I twist and squirm, and my movements increase the friction of the old man’s lecherous rubbing and squeezing. I remind myself that I have not completely lost my self-control, even though I am being rocked and pounded. Farmer Plow pulls my knees up by my sides.
A thin finger leaves a wet trail down the crack between my cheeks, presses against my smaller opening, and smoothly pushes in. Deeper and deeper it goes, spiraling around the walls that were formerly touched with nothing but filth. “Ah,” sighs a soft voice, as if its owner had found something surprising and important.
“Oh!” I scream. Or maybe it is, “No!” I feel as if I am falling down into Hell, but I want this unbearable pleasure, this thrilling violation. I hope desperately that hanging will feel like this, at least in the moment before my neck breaks.
“We have her now,” my ravisher tells his companions, “but I will never hand this sweet neck over to the hangman.”
“No, indeed,” chuckles the deacon. “That would be a sinful waste. And the theft of our lawful property.”
“Lawfully,” explains the mistress, “she cannot be hanged while she may be with child. Goodman Plow, you have saved her body.” I am filled with relief, although I know that my examination has not yet ended. “There is much left to do to save her soul, Brethren,” she reminds them – and me – in a voice ripe with satisfaction. “Her bottom is a foul pit that still needs cleansing. And we have not even begun to prick her skin.”
“Fine for you, Goodwife,” admits Farmer Plow, “but her hide needs to be toughened. A good whipping could save her soul.”
“Not yet,” she calmly rebukes him. “All in time.” She seizes my two hands, and pulls me to a sitting position. “You must stand before us, girl,” she tells me, “and answer our questions.” I slide off the table to stand on the floor.
Deacon Jones grasps my shoulder, and turns me so that he can study my backside. “Such impudent buttocks,” he comments, “must surely have pleased the One who lurks in foul places. Goodwife Jenkins, have you ever given yourself to your Master in an unnatural manner?”
“I have no Master but my husband,” I respond carefully, “and he has never requested such favors from me.”
“We will determine the truth of it,” answers my examiner as he pushes me to the table’s edge and bends me over it.
I am afraid. “Please!” I beg. “Your Honors, please do not harm me inside.” I have heard of explosive devices being inserted into the buttocks of bound slaves and set alight as punishment for rebellion.
“Hush, coward,” scolds my female tormenter. “A little pain is a small price to pay for redemption. We are not brutes. The shame we will give you is a precious gift. Deacon, have you your gloves ready?”
“Momentarily, Goodwife,” he smiles, pulling on a pair of fine leather riding gloves. He strides to the fireplace, and lifts a small pot off the mantelpiece. He rolls each finger of one glove in the contents, which appears to be tallow. The goodwife and the farmer have seized my two shoulders, and are holding me in place on the table.
The old man stands behind me and eases one long, inquisitive finger into my small hole while I squirm in humiliation. He pushes against my resisting flesh, and tears spring to my eyes. In an instant, my little gate seems to unlock, and the deacon’s finger presses on into my bowels. His hard member brushes against me through his trousers. “Excellent,” he tells his companions. “She seems to be untried in these parts, despite her lascivious nature.”
Discomfort gives way to a hot, shameful pleasure that rushes through me as I try to lie still. I feel as if I could dissolve into a pool of red light. I wonder if my nominal lord and master has experienced such a surrender, or has received it from his companion. “Prosper!” I murmur under my breath.
“Now she calls for her husband,” comments the woman, sounding amused. “You bade him farewell, faithless wench. Your greedy fundament needs a smart answer from a whip.”
“ ’Tis overdue,” growls Goodman Plow.
The deacon, however, has the strongest need, and I have little hope that his age will cause his manhood to soften before he can tear my flesh with it. “She needs a man of experience to take the insolence from her,” he tells the other two. “She needs to be saved from false pride.”
The goodwife fetches the little pot of melted fat, and offers it to the deacon. Soon I am stretched by the intrusion of another long, slippery finger. My aged tormentor grunts as he probes my formerly virgin buttocks. “Daughter,” he rasps in my ear. “Accept it and help yourself.” He withdraws his fingers.
His greased member feels thinner than Goodman Plow’s, but it hurts when he pushes it into my back opening. I cry out as he thrusts into me, while the other two prevent me from moving away. Tears flow down my face as he moves in me like a slow, hard piston.
“Wench!” exclaims the goodwife. “You need not suffer so much. Open fully to the servant of God, and find your relief.” Her words are strangely comforting, and I feel the pain receding as I am stroked in my secret depths. I am flooded with warmth.
Goodwife Green reaches under me and pricks the wet lips of my cunt with a small, sharp point. When she pricks my tender nubbin, I shake with spasms like one possessed. “Yes,” she goads me, like a rider spurring a horse. “My little wanton.” Her fingernails lightly scrape my thighs as I tremble and groan.
The deacon has spent his seed, and his member is subsiding. I feel shamed again as he withdraws from me, leaving me empty but still marked inside.
Goodman Plow seizes a handful of my hair and pulls my head up. The smell of his sweat frightens me. “Jezebel,” he sneers, his hot breath on my cheeks. “Whore for all men and even – for women. A grunting sow would show more modesty. You will sing a different tune when I leave some honest stripes on your hide.”
“Patience!” snaps the goodwife.
“Brother Plow!” barks the deacon. “Our fallen sister has submitted to her examination and has not tried to deceive us. Goodness may yet issue from her in its allotted time.” He is gripping the goodman’s arm with the steady strength of his years.
The woman turns me to face the two men, and I am unexpectedly comforted by her arm around my waist. The goodman has been defeated, and the set of his jaw shows his resentment. “She is mine by right,” he tells them. “I planted a child in her.”
But he is no match for the goodwife. As a mother of five, she has had much experience of this blessing. “The Lord plants children in women’s wombs,” she reminds him. “It is too soon to know whether you have been an instrument of His will.” She smiles. The deacon casts an admiring glance at her.
“When she bears my son,” persists the goodman, “the whole town will know of it.”
“The town knows that Goodwife Jenkins has a husband,” the deacon smoothly explains. “Any children that she may bear will have his name and a right to his property.” I am amazed by the unlikely partnership between the two wittiest examiners.
“A man’s claim that he has gotten a child on another man’s wife,” observes the goodwife, “is a confession of adultery.” If the goodman does not k
now that proven adultery is a hanging offense, he will surely be informed of it. I feel like smiling as I come to know that the goodman, no less than I, will be saved from false pride by the strict laws of our society. Any children that I may bear will indeed seem like miracles from God, because no man will dare to claim fatherhood except my beloved Prosper.
“She is ours,” gloats my female tormentor, who now seems like my savior. “Our sacred charge. We will recommend mercy to the court, on condition that she serve each of us in turn until her sentence is completed. And none may punish her except by our common will and agreement.”
I jerk as she playfully touches her needle to my back. “Gentlemen,” she addresses them, “you must help me with the pricking. Hold her well.” The two men hold me by the arms, one possessively and the other with stiff confusion.
“Have you a witch’s tit, she-beast?” she questions me. “A cursed place on your body that is insensitive to feeling?”
At this moment, my body feels exquisitely alive to sensation of every kind, from my head to my feet. “No indeed, Madam,” I answer.
“We shall see,” she promises. To my surprise, the pricks of her needle are light and provoking rather than painful. Both men are moved to laughter as I wiggle and squirm in their grasp. The invisible trail of pricks is like a track of mild insect bites, and I struggle to satisfy the itching they cause.
The deacon and the farmer tease me further by tickling my skin where I have tried to scratch it. “Oh!” My feelings rise to an unbearable pitch. “Your Honors! Have mercy!”
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