Damsels in Distress

by Amanita Virosa

Sir Richard shrugged. The king’s spymaster was a big man with coarse features and a generous belly. His family were not of noble birth; his titles freshly minted in payment for his many services to King James and, Lady Jane thought, it certainly showed in his visage.

  ‘My lady, the king is merciful. He seeks only security. This papist conspiracy is undone already. Sign and throw yourself upon his mercy. It would be a pity to break so noble a form as yours in my dungeons.’

  Despite his words, Jane saw no pity in his pale blue eyes. Rather, she thought, the ill-bred brute was eager to get on with his game. Well let him, she said to herself; the Wintertons had long been at court when the Makepieces were still saddlers. Let the oaf do his worst. She would show him what nobility could endure.

  But that was her head talking; Jane’s heart was hammering furiously as she followed his back along the passageway. Two burly men at arms brought up the rear, rendering escape impossible, the faces of these silent creatures hidden by leather masks. No doubt this was to protect them should the wheel of fortune turn again, but it made them seem horribly sinister to Jane.

  Lord Makepiece stopped at an oak door and produced an iron key. Beyond gloomy steps were but badly lit by guttering candles. ‘Take care, my lady,’ he cautioned, and led the way down to the torture chamber.

  Lady Jane had been given leisure to imagine this place as she waited in her little locked room, but the reality was far worse. There were several grim looking machines. She recognised the rack with a shudder, but there were other apparatus the purpose of which she could not guess. The place smelt of pure fear, and she had to force her feet to continue down the stone steps. It was hot, and she realised that coals were glowing in a brazier, and with horror she saw that several irons were heating there. Suddenly she did not feel so brave, so proud or so noble. In fact, Lady Jane just felt like a very frightened nineteen-year-old girl.

  At a word from Lord Makepiece the men grabbed her arms and pulled her further into the gloomy chamber, uncomfortably close to the glowing brazier. Chains descended from the low ceiling, on the end of which was iron manacles. The two men locked them about her wrists, then one of the men went to the wall and an alarming clanking echoed around the torture chamber as he pulled on the free end of the chains, lifting Jane’s arms high above her head until she had to stand on tiptoe.

  The other guard knelt and fastened iron cuffs around her ankles, the cuffs fixed to chains attached to ringbolts in the stone floor. Lady Jane was strained tautly, uncomfortable and feeling extremely vulnerable. There was not a thing she could do now to protect herself.

  ‘All right, you can go,’ Lord Makepiece said, much to her surprise, and the silent men turned without a word and climbed the steps. They had frightened her, but their dismissal frightened her even more. What was Makepiece about to do that he did not want to be witnessed?

  The earl turned to the brazier and her heart began to pound once again as he picked up one of the iron rods, which he used to poke the glowing coals vigorously. Sparks flew, the coals glowed even brighter, and when he withdrew the poker its tip was glowing white-hot. Makepiece looked at it for a moment before replacing it in the brazier, and Jane nearly fainted with relief.

  He turned to face her, smiling slightly, the flickering orange light of the brazier making him look almost satanic.

  ‘My Lady Jane,’ he said at last, ‘it is hot down here. Allow me to help you become more comfortable.’

  Jane suppressed a gasp of apprehension as he picked up a large knife, and walked towards her.

  ‘You will sign, of course, you realise,’ he said, almost conversationally. ‘The question is not if you sign, but when you sign.’

  He stopped just in front of her, and she tried to look disdainfully at him, but the truth was that fear was stripping away her ability to remain defiant. Makepiece raised the knife to her throat, she held her breath, then he slowly licked his lips and traced the shape of the upper slopes of her breasts, drifted the metal blade between her breasts, then with a sudden, aggressive, and practiced swipe that made the poor girl squeal with alarm he sliced her bodice open.

  Fear, shame and shock competed for precedence within Jane, but Makepiece was not finished. Evilly, deliberately, unhurriedly, with every indication that this was an ordinary day’s work for him, he cut away her dress, chemise and petticoats until she stood in her chains, entirely naked except for her silk stockings. The Earl of Sheringham put the knife down and picked up a nearby candelabrum, which he held up so that its guttering light of five candles flickered on her naked body. Jane flinched from his scrutiny, but there was nothing she could do except shamefully lower her eyes and look at the floor.

  ‘My dear,’ he said at last, ‘you are very beautiful. I knew your face was lovely, of course, but your form is quite exquisite too.’

  He set the candelabrum on the floor at her feet and then straightened up and reached out, making her gasp as his fingertips brushed her belly. Delicately he stroked up until they touched the underside of her breast.

  ‘Do you molest all your victims, sir?’ she managed to protest.

  ‘Oh no,’ Makepiece said calmly, taking her nipple between finger and thumb and squeezing. ‘No, sadly, most of my work here is with far less beautiful traitors than you, my lady.’

  He raised his free hand and took hold of her other nipple, and squeezing both, she felt them swell beneath his touch. Powerless to stop her own nipples from betraying her, Jane felt the blood rise to her cheeks. Then, quite suddenly, he pinched both nipples hard and she cried out with pain and indignation.

  Makepiece chuckled. ‘You must be very sensitive if that little pinch pained you, my lady,’ he said with an evil, lupine smile, and something snapped then, the sudden hurt in her breasts emphasising two things; one that she felt even mild pain very keenly, the other that chained thus her body was utterly vulnerable to his malice. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  Makepiece stooped to retrieve the candelabrum and circled her. She knew he was assessing her naked form from behind, for she could hear nothing and see nothing but the guttering of the candlelight. But this brooding presence was unbearable, and her naked bottom clenched in anticipation of a blow that never came.

  ‘Your arse is a noble sight indeed, Lady Jane,’ he said at last. ‘Your back and legs are things of beauty but your arse is sheer poetry. It seems almost a sacrilege to mar such perfection.’

  She heard a rustle and guessed, perhaps felt, him move closer, and could not quite prevent a whimper of fear from escaping her lips. Then she felt his hand fondle her bottom.

  ‘Such lovely, warm, soft flesh,’ he growled in her ear. ‘It begs for my whip. Can you hear it, Lady Jane? Listen, it pleads for my whip.’

  ‘I’ll sign.’ Jane was startled to hear her own voice say such a thing. ‘Please sir, have mercy, I will sign your paper, only please…’

  ‘Oh no.’ The voice was lower, more hushed. ‘You had your chance, my little dove, and I am very pleased that you did not take it. You are in my place of work, and you are about to find out there is no such thing as mercy here.’

  The fondling hand moved to her hip and then around, tickling her belly until she gasped. And it did not stop there. Jane gulped as fingers found their way to her pubis and stroked the brown curls there. He was so close now she could feel him press against her back, and feel his codpiece pressing into the cleft between her buttocks.

  The trespassing fingers stroked the area around her clitoris and then probed lower, nestling between her cunny lips.

  ‘My lady,’ the voice growled again, ‘how is it I find you to be like this? I swear you are already wet, as juicy as a ripe Italian peach.’

  Shame briefly engulfed fear in Jane’s palpitating heart, and the trickle of tears became two glistening streams. Yet still she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure as his cunning fingers explored, for all the fear and
shame.

  ‘Sadly, however…’ Makepiece said as he pulled his fingers away from her, ‘this is neither the time nor the place for pleasure. This is the time for pain.’

  With that he walked to one wall, and in the guttering orange torchlight Jane could just make out ominous shapes hanging there. Lord Makepiece took his time inspecting the objects, before finally selecting one, and as he moved back towards her she could see it was a whip with nine or more thin tails.

  ‘We might as well start you with the whipcord, my dear,’ he said with a cold smile, holding the thing up for her to see. Each lash was made of thin and rather stiff looking cord. He felt the tails and frowned. ‘But I fear it is a little dry,’ he said. ‘We find this type of whip hurts much more if moistened.’

  Jane watched with mounting horror as he fetched a large pitcher of water and carefully placed the whiptails into it, and all too soon he pulled the dripping lashes out again. Jane found the whole process horribly fascinating; indeed she simply could not look away.

  There was a horrible hissing sound as Lord Makepiece struck the wooden bed of the rack with the cruel implement, and Jane saw myriad beads of water fly, sparkling in the candlelight and firelight, but she had no leisure to speculate on them, for the ogre was again moving around to take up position behind her.

  ‘Such a lovely body, Lady Jane, I truly ache to flog it,’ he said in a low growl, and then she heard the awful hissing sound again.

  ‘Hush, hush, my lady,’ Makepiece said softly, ‘I have not skinned you, quite. Such fair flesh will be unmarked once the sign of these whipcord kisses fades.’

  Jane could not respond. Indeed she could do nothing but sob. The flogging had been simply excruciating. Her tormentor had concentrated on her back, whipping her mercilessly as her shrieks echoed around the dungeon. Her bottom and thighs had taken their share of whipcord lashes too. To Jane it had felt as though her whole back and behind was being flayed.

  And still her hide was burning. In her young life she had never imagined, much less experienced, such intolerable discomfort.

  It took time for the scalding sensations to subside a little, and time for her to stop breathing brokenly and quell her gasps and sobs. At last the pain became a duller throbbing, and only then did it occur to her that Makepiece had apparently left her alone.

  At that moment a sound from a particularly gloomy corner of the dungeon made her start. She heard the rattle of a key in a lock and a girlish voice cry out. Another victim of the evil man!

  Blinking away the tears that still blurred her vision, Jane strained to peer round into the gloom. Two figures emerged from the shadows; the familiar bulky form of Makepiece, and a slighter one, a girl. She was naked, but there was an iron collar around her throat, and her wrists and ankles were fettered with heavy chains.

  ‘This is Lady Jane, our latest guest, Polly,’ the brute announced. ‘You will see to her needs.’ Lord Makepiece reached out and patted Jane’s swollen cunny. ‘One need in particular, to start with.’

  Polly’s body was lithe and shapely, and she was pretty, with wide eyes and long black hair, tied back into a ponytail. The girl’s skin was pale and flawless, except for a few livid welts curling around her flanks. She blinked solemnly at Makepiece’s order, and then anxiously licked her lips.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said softly, dropping to her knees in front of Lady Jane, her chains clinking in the stillness of the dungeon as she moved.

  Jane felt the naked girl’s tongue on her inner thighs, and could not quite suppress a gasp. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself from moaning as the girl began to lick upward, towards her pulsing sex.

  ‘I rescued Polly Fletcher from the gallows,’ Makepiece droned, Jane barely hearing his ominous words. ‘Like you, she is a traitor, I am afraid. Or at least, her husband was involved in a plot. She has been here for three months now and has quite repaid my generosity.’ Lord Makepiece sniggered, moved to the rack and leaned against it, and Jane watched aghast as he unlaced his breeches and took out his swollen cock. But then Polly’s inquisitive tongue reached her nether lips and she bucked in response.

  ‘That’s it, my pretty Polly, lick the little trollop until she begs for more,’ he encouraged between chuckles, openly caressing his engorged cock as he watched.

  In a futile attempt to retain the last scrap of her dignity, Jane tried her best not to respond to that cunning mouth, but it was quite hopeless. Polly flicked her tongue around Jane’s labia with immense expertise, and even before it began to tease her clitoris she was closing her eyes tight and writhing in her bonds. When she opened her eyes again she saw the leering grin of Lord Makepiece, lewdly pumping his bloated cock in his fist, and looking down she saw Polly’s naked body and gently bobbing head, and the combination of so much visual stimulus swept forth an intense orgasm that near took her breath away, her gasps and shrieks filling the dungeon chamber once again.

  ‘Ah!’ Jane gasped in pain.

  ‘I’m sorry, your ladyship,’ Polly said in a soft voice, ‘the brine stings, I know, but after the sting it will feel better.’

  To Jane’s fevered mind the brine Polly was splashing over her whipped back and buttocks felt as if it was stripping away her flesh, but she was still chained and there was nothing she could do to avoid the torment. ‘Oh please, that’s enough, for pity’s sake enough,’ she gasped.

  ‘Sorry, your ladyship,’ Polly answered in a strained voice, ‘but the master told me to brine you thoroughly.’

  ‘And do you always do as that beast tells you, even when he is not present?’ Jane knew the answer. Three months in that cruel dungeon had been quite sufficient for Makepiece to break the dark-haired girl completely to his cruel will.

  He had climaxed just after Jane’s shuddering orgasm, and she watched, astonished and transfixed as his creamy emission splattered audibly onto the stone flags of the dungeon floor. With a grunt he then ordered the kneeling Polly to lick him clean and then lap up the cold spunk from the flagstones, Jane shocked to watch the girl obey his outrageous order without a moment’s hesitation.

  How many whippings had it taken, Jane wondered as she winced against the stinging salt water splashing over her bottom, to bring the girl to such a state of submission? She seemed to have become his possession absolutely; there was little hope of help from that particular quarter.

  Polly splashed the brine over Jane’s whipped thighs and the bound girl closed her eyes and opened her mouth to moan again.

  ‘Easy, my girl, easy!’ Lord Makepiece murmured as Jane fell into his arms. On his orders Polly had released the mechanism that held the chains taut, and with muscles numbed by two hours in one position, and weakened by her flogging, Jane collapsed as the chains slackened. But Makepiece knew his business and was ready to catch her, and held her in his arms as Polly hurried to unlock the manacles about her ankles.

  ‘There, there, my dear,’ he said, lifting and carrying her across the dungeon. He stopped at a chair, which he sat upon, letting Jane settle on his lap. He began to massage her arms and shoulders, which was painful and yet welcome, and little by little her aches eased.

  ‘Polly, the food,’ he ordered.

  Her chains clanking as she moved, the naked prisoner hurried across the dungeon and disappeared up the stone steps, returning a few moments later carrying a tray laden with good food; fresh white bread, cold beef and chicken, fresh fruit, and wine to drink. There were also two wooden bowls filled with stale bread crusts.

  Lord Makepiece kept Jane on his lap as he fed himself, ordering Polly to hand him a chicken leg and a goblet of red wine, offering nothing to either of the naked prisoners, and despite her fear and shame Jane realised how very hungry she was.

  At last the tormentor had eaten enough, though he retained the wine goblet. ‘All right, Polly, you may now prepare the prisoner’s food,’ he said, and Jane watched as the naked girl took the two bowls of
crusts and placed them on the floor, then took the pitcher and poured water into them.

  ‘The crusts are old and dry,’ Sheringham said conversationally to Jane, ‘but I am generous and allow them to be moistened. Now, watch Polly, for from now on this is how you will feed.’

  Jane watched aghast as Polly knelt before the bowls, placing her palms flat on the floor beside one. Then the girl lowered her head and began eating, direct from the bowl, like an animal.

  ‘Now, your ladyship,’ Makepiece said to Jane, ‘you may claim your supper, too. You will eat in the same manner.’

  So hungry was Jane that she had little choice but to slide from his lap and fall to her knees. She looked at the bowl, and at Polly, scoffing her crusts like a pig. She looked up at Makepiece and met his condescending sneer. His dark, malicious eyes bored into hers, and in the end she had to look away. She shivered, conscious of her nakedness and her vulnerability in that terrible place. A sigh escaped her as she knelt before he bowl and lowered her head to its stale, wholly unappetising contents, blushing furiously and quivering with shame.

  ‘To think, this will be the last place I will ever see…’ Jane sighed miserably.

  ‘What do you mean, my lady?’ Polly anxiously broke into her thoughts. ‘What a thing to say.’

  After the frugal meal Jane discovered from where Lord Makepiece had produced Polly. In a little alcove of the dungeon was a small but sturdy iron cage, into which both girls were herded, Jane having been collared and manacled like Polly. There was barely room for both of them to lie flat, so they sat side by side, cold iron bars against their backs, each lost in her own thoughts.

  ‘It is the truth, I am afraid,’ Jane said sadly. ‘Once I sign Lord Makepiece’s confession my execution is certain. And I must sign for I cannot endure more pain.’

  ‘My master,’ Polly said softly, ‘is fond of beauty, my lady. He does not like to waste it…’

  ‘No,’ Jane said. ‘And he will keep you while you serve his fancy. But I fear that I am more important. Neither Lord Makepiece nor his majesty will suffer me to live.’