Tales of the Huntsman

by M Palmeri

  She was screaming as her body exploded, and collapsed as the two lovers let her go. She was almost too delirious to feel Harriet and Mayleen unbind her, but her sex resisted when the rod was slipped out of her. Rose bent down and kissed her like a sister, then kissed away the tears that Marie didn’t even realize she’d shed.

  Then Rose continued her tale:

  “The Count seemed more impressed by their performance on the mill, and had expressed his enthusiasm for the show by fucking his hanging victim as he leeringly watched obediently Mayleen suffer.

  “‘My lord, this girl’s mouth is just as skilled on your sex as mine,’ Rosalie offered seductively. ‘And as you can see, even under the most extreme tortures, she remains obedient, even enthusiastic—she lives and dies only to please us.’ And to prove this further, she produced a pair of needles from her hair and used them to lance through her victim’s nipples. Mayleen bucked and squealed beneath her, but did not stop the work of her tongue, even when Rosalie used the needles like hooks to stretch her breasts.

  “‘We shall see what is fantasy and what is reality,’ the Count replied, still not fully convinced. ‘For if it is torture that you wish to learn, then this is but the prelude.’ He ordered Mayleen unbound, meanwhile letting down his own victim. Taking the poor girl roughly in hand, he led Rosalie and Mayleen to the roof of the main tower…”

  Following the narrative, Mayleen and Harriet helped Marie to her feet, which she found it hard to keep under her. The climb up to the top of the main tower seemed to go on in a dream, with the two women having to almost carry her at times.

  Another heavy door led them out onto the roof, and Marie felt the chill of the air on her naked flesh, which brought her back to where she was.

  The roof of the tower was a wooden deck, ringed with a high crenellated wall. To the battlement side was the door they came through, set in a smaller watchtower. Behind it, Marie could almost make out the slowly turning vanes of the windmill that had empowered her mechanical plundering. But it was the center of the roof that commanded her attention:

  A horizontal cross-like structure, built of heavy beams, was set at hip-height. Looking closer, Marie could see that the cross-beams were more accurately set to match the limbs of a spread-eagled victim. Stout cords promised to bind limbs to the beams in several places. There was no support for the head, but a rounded construction of planking at the center of the cross seemed built to fit the victim’s back. Beneath the center of the cross was a crank set with a large iron bar for a lever. The bar was six-sided, set with studs, almost three feet long and as thick as the rod which had just been raping her. Disturbingly, a brazier was set nearby, glowing with coals.

  Mayleen and Harriet hauled Marie up onto the cross, and fastened her to it, her naked body now face-up at the open sky. Rose pulled the iron bar free of its mount and hefted it in her hands reverently, explaining clinically:

  “In years past, a favorite method of execution by torture was Breaking on the Wheel. I expect you are too young to have witnessed such a spectacle. The victim was spread-eagled like you are, sometimes on top of an actual cart wheel, other times with blocks placed under each of the major joints: wrists, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, ankles…”

  Rose touched the rod lightly to each part of Marie’s body as she named it.

  “Then, every bone in the victim’s limbs would be shattered systematically. If the executioner was particularly cruel, the joints themselves would also be crushed. If the wheel was used, the shattered limbs would then be woven through the spokes. The victim could then be dispatched by a blow to the head or chest, but was sometimes left on display, offered up to the crows. This became a popular public spectacle, especially if the victim was a woman, because of the way she would scream and writhe naked under the abuse. The former master of this castle constructed this device as a refinement on the ordeal, and subjected young women frequently to its horrors, often in pairs so that one could watch what awaited them.”

  Mayleen led Harriet to the wall of the watchtower, where she bound her wrists to a ring over her head. Rose continued to focus on Marie.

  “Bound like this, he could proceed to the breaking, or dally with other methods: cutting, piercing, hot irons. He raped them throughout, of course. And then he would break their bones. First just the forearms and shins, then rape them like that. Then would come the upper arms and thigh bones. Again, he would rape them. Finally, the pelvis would be shattered. Can you imagine what it must have been like, being raped with all of your limbs and your hips broken apart? But he would not stop there. The rounded board at your back was once a sharp wedge.”

  Rose put the rod back and used it as a lever. The platform at Marie’s back began to rise up, though her wrists and ankles were still secured to the cross beams, stretching and bending her backwards.

  “Imagine this with your arms and legs shattered, your back being split…”

  Rose’s hands ran over Marie’s belly, her breasts.

  “If life was left, he would take the time to torture further, by cutting, or flaying. Often the girl’s back might be finally split by cutting through the muscles of her stomach, and she would be torn in half as her insides spilled out. Or sometimes he would use these…”

  Rose showed Marie a pincer-device that looked like the talons of a giant bird: four long, sharp tines curving in toward each other, hinged where they were jointed together.

  “A breast-ripper,” she named it, opening its claws and carefully embracing Marie’s left breast within it. “To be used cold or red hot…” She pulled gently on Marie’s trapped breast, holding the tension for a moment before releasing her. She stepped around between Marie’s legs and Marie felt chilled fingers idly caress her sex. She was amazed to find she was indeed still quite wet, and was shocked at herself that she had somehow stayed aroused with all this talk of horror and torture, But she was not shocked at all when Rose slipped a finger all the way inside her, pumping her with it lazily.

  “This was the monster that lived here. This was the monster that two daring young women slew that day…

  “The Count took great pleasure in telling the maid Mayleen what fate awaited her, yet she still cooperated willingly—even enthusiastically—as he had Rosalie secure her to the cross. The nameless farm-girl had been tied up to watch. But when the Count took up the iron rod, Rosalie begged him to be the one to use it, first heating it in the fire, then roughly tormenting Mayleen’s vulnerable sex with it.

  “‘Her mouth, my lord,’ Rosalie seduced. ‘Now, even as I break her, let her show you how she has been taught to beg for mercy.’

  “And while Rosalie roughly violated Mayleen’s body with the carefully heated rod, the Count let himself be taken to the root in the struggling girl’s mouth. Distracted by the girl’s skill and enjoying his turn at intermittently choking her, the Count watched as Rosalie withdrew the rod and teased Mayleen’s shin-bones. Still, Mayleen did not stop the work of her mouth, instead whimpering, becoming more desperate at it, and the Count delighted in her suffering. But then, just as the rod was raised to strike the first blow, Mayleen bit down viciously.

  “The Count wailed in agony and rage, and raised his fists to beat Mayleen loose, and that was when Rosalie swung: unable to get a clear strike at his head, she struck him in the chest with all her might, burying the rod in his solar plexus, cutting short his scream. Doubled over, with Mayleen tearing mercilessly at his genitals, the monster’s arms dropped, his hands instinctively trying to pry her loose, and Rosalie struck true for his head, and then again at his neck. He finally tore free of Mayleen as he fell back, and Rosalie leapt upon him and beat him savagely with the iron bar until every bone she could reach broke and she was too tired to strike anymore.

  “His screams had alerted the guard, and Rosalie had to bar the door against them. Freeing Mayleen and the farm girl, the three of them hoisted the Count’s shattered body over the battlements and threw him naked down the side of the hill that the castle commande
d.

  “The Count’s guard, however, now had themselves busied with the sudden arrival of Duke Charles and Baron Richard, each accompanied by a small force of their own guard (though Richard’s were somewhat smaller and kept their helmet visors lowered). Hearing them, Rosalie called down to her husband, claiming that the Count had imprisoned and tried to rape and murder her and her companions. Seeing Mayleen with her (and thinking the blood running from her mouth was her own), the Duke became enraged and threatened to execute the Count’s guard to the last man if they did not surrender to his authority. Out-manned and leaderless, they quickly assented.

  “The testimony of Rosalie, Mayleen, the farm girl (whose name was Frida) and some of the former guardsmen, as well as the evidence of the Count’s torture devices and the bones of dozens of young women buried in his fields, gave the Duke reason to justify confiscating the Count’s lands and estate. His serfs, needless to say, were more than agreeable to the change in lordship.

  “The Duke, grateful to the Red Baroness, granted her husband the castle and a share of the lands, as well as conferring upon him the title of the Count. The estate was populated immediately by a significant part of the barony’s estate, and the new Count Richard and Countess Rosalie took possession.

  “The Duke, further moved by his panic of seeing his dear Mayleen in such danger, conspired with Rosalie to manufacture for the former woodcutter’s daughter a lineage of nobility, and promptly married her. The celebration of their union culminated in three days of feasting, which also served to strengthen the union of loyalty between Duke Charles and the new Count Richard, complete with an exchange of special ‘gifts’.”

  Chapter Thirteen: From Red to Black

  “There is no more exquisite form of torture than forcing pleasure on a helpless victim,” Rose purred, after skillfully fingering Marie for some time.

  Torn between a flood of sensations—stretched and bent back on the cruel cross, arms and legs pulled tight in four directions while the chill air of the morning blew across her naked body, ears flooded with the cries that Harriet was making from the wall at the edge of her vision as Mayleen focused her attentions there—Marie found that it was the pleasure that held her attention most completely. Indeed, the other agonies seemed to intensify it by contrast, and she was shocked to find that she even felt a swell of gratitude as Rose bent to lick her again.

  But after only a teasing moment, Rose stopped. Marie had to bite her lip to keep from screaming her sudden, overwhelming frustration. And even though she was bent too far backwards to see the look on Rose’s face, she knew the Countess was grinning at her predicament.

  “No, girl,” Rose purred, running her fingers roughly through Marie’s thick nether hair. “I’m afraid this just won’t do.”

  Marie could not see where Rose went, but it seemed to be in the general direction of the brazier that provided the only heat on the breezy roof. She could hear Rose gathering up a number of things, and tensed in anticipatory terror as she felt the Countess return between her legs. But what she felt on her sex next was most shocking in how unexpected it was: a soothing cascade of warm water poured over her, rinsing her sex. And then she felt Rose’s hands there, slick with what she came to realize was soap. And then, while Rose hummed to herself, she felt the deliberate scraping of metal, tugging at her fur from the edges.

  “Don’t move, girl,” Rose warned her. “I wouldn’t want to return you to my husband damaged.”

  Marie held as still as she could, feeling more vulnerable than ever, exposed to the open sky as Rose shaved her. Now and then, a soap-slick finger would stray between her lips, over her clit, even to dance on her anus. Then Rose stopped her work to lower the back-support and untie Marie’s legs, and Mayleen came to her assistance to pull Marie’s knees up high and wide. More warm water and soap were applied, and Marie could feel her flesh carefully stretched and spread to allow Rose’s blade to work lower, gliding frighteningly close to her most sensitive flesh. And she could feel herself go bare.

  Another cascade of water rinsed the soap from her, with Rose making sure to part her lips to rinse her within as well. Then the warmth was replaced by a new and intensified chill across her now hairless sex, as Rose took a moment to assess her work. Marie waited for what seemed like an eternity, feeling more naked now than she ever had, until finally Rose spoke one familiar phrase:

  “All the better to eat you, my dear.”

  And she did, diving in with a fury, as if the hair had restrained her from indulging her passions fully. Marie twisted and bucked on the cross, her legs still in Mayleen’s strong grip, as Rose devoured her with a hunger that almost convinced her that it must be Richard between her legs. But the delicate softness of this new mouth on her could not be mistaken for Richard’s beard; something, she realized, that she could now feel all the more clearly without her own fur in the way. Rose’s mouth seemed to melt seamlessly into her. And when Mayleen finally released her (to return her attention to Harriet), Marie kept her legs open.

  She waited for Rose’s fingers, for her fist, for something, but there was only the tongue. And the cold. And Harriet, gasping for dear life as Mayleen did things to her that Marie could not see. And Marie’s mind swam with images of Richard, but she was shocked to find how quickly he faded, only to be readily replaced with her darkest fantasies about what she’d like to see done to her stupid vain naïve selfish stepsisters, whose only apparent fantasy in their useless lives was to be taken care of by some rich, sexless man. She wanted them here now. She wanted them to find out what it meant to really “have a position with a nobleman”. Images of torture swirled in her head—Rose was making her delirious as what she was doing with her tongue overcame her. And Marie found herself screaming, losing herself as the world spun into vertigo, sure that her building orgasm would tear her apart. And then she couldn’t breathe at all, locked in a convulsion of ecstasy that seemed to go on and on forever, trying to pull herself away from Rose’s merciless tongue. But Rose had seized her by the hips and would not let her get away, would not let her have mercy…

  Marie feinted.

  And awoke, still on the cross. Rose was supporting her head, stroking her hair, purring reassuringly into her ear. But she could still feel that tongue, lazily now, taking its slow, sweet time exploring her, carefully gentle on her now agonizingly-sensitive clit. It took her several long moments to realize it was Mayleen’s tongue now, enjoying herself between her legs.

  Marie felt numb and raw, too numb and raw to really enjoy the attention anymore; and Mayleen seemed well aware of it, because she slowed and stopped what she was doing, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

  “Just a taste, lovely one…” Mayleen sang softly, then eased Marie’s legs down. Rose undid her arms, and the two helped Marie up off of the cross. She was so stiff and sore she could barely move.

  Harriet had been let down, and was sitting back against the watchtower where she’d been tied, eyes closed, drenched in sweat, biting her lip as she carefully fingered her own sex, her hand slick with oil.

  “Time to go in, I think,” Rose announced. Marie caught Harriet looking longingly at the cross. Rose helped her to her feet and offered, “Tomorrow, my sweet. When you and I are both fresh. I promise.”

  It was difficult getting back down the stairs, but the warmth was welcome. Rose led them back to her bedchamber, where Ella and Ruth were happily sleeping in each other’s arms. Ella stirred when she heard them return.

  “The three of us have been up all night,” Rose told Marie. “And I think you might appreciate something to eat and a good soaking.”

  “Perhaps both at once,” Ella suggested brightly. “Have you ever had breakfast served to you in a bath?”

  Rose and Mayleen led Harriet to the bed to join Ruth, while Ella got up and took Marie’s hand. Still naked, and smelling strongly of sex and sweat, she led Marie down to the baths.

  Following behind, Marie got an even clearer look at the scars on Ella’s back, which cover
ed her down to the backs of her knees. They were uncountable, and seemed in various stages of fading, giving Marie a sense that whatever abuse she had suffered had happened over quite some time, and quite some time ago.

  Stopping in the kitchens briefly, Ella ordered food to be brought, completely unconscious of her nudity. While waiting, Marie thought she could hear sharp, rhythmic cries coming down from Richard’s chamber, and remembered Rose’s directives regarding Leanna. She found herself wanting to go up and look (or more if she wasn’t still so sore). But Ella took her by the arm, apparently noticing her distress.

  “You can see him later,” she assured, then took Marie for a bath.

  “I have a question I’d like to ask,” Marie found the nerve to inquire of Ella after they’d been soaking together for an hour or so, snacking on fruits and pastries, sipping watered wine. Ella had been very kind to her, and very attentive, yet had made no advances, seemingly content with just her company. (And she still seemed so strangely familiar, though Marie frustratingly couldn’t match her to memory.) But she had said very little today. “About Rose…”

  Ella seemed reluctant to approach the subject, but shrugged her assent.

  “In the stories, she is Rosalie of the Red Dress,” Marie began, careful not to sound too forward. “But in life, she wears black, like her stepmother was described. Claire wears red. And I haven’t heard anyone call her Rosalie.”

  “She is not Rosalie,” Ella answered, a warning tone in her voice. “It would be wise of you never to call her that. It has been nearly twenty years since anyone has called her that.”

  Ella looked like she was in pain. Marie let her be for a moment, then proceeded carefully.

  “What happened?”

  When Ella didn’t answer, Marie filled her in on the details she had learned from the stories so far, ending with Mayleen becoming Duchess.