Cauldron of Fear

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  'Nice horsey, eh, Titty Kitty?' Adam stood alongside her, leering into her face, savouring the effect of his insidious torture routine. 'Nice horsey cock in your little cunny getting you all hot, eh, Titty Kitty?' He tweaked her right nipple, sending a fresh spasm of heat searing down through her spine.

  'N-n-no, m-master!' she stammered, barely able to control her tongue. 'P-please, I b-beg y-you!'

  'You beg me?' Adam chuckled. 'Then beg me the way I told you and we'll see, eh?'

  Kitty swallowed hard and cleared her throat of the spittle that was threatening to choke her. 'P-please, master,' she began again, making a tremendous effort to keep her voice steady. 'Your slave, Titty Kitty, she begs you t-to spare her from this punishment cock and punish her with her master's fine cock instead.'

  'Better, Titty Kitty,' Adam nodded. He tweaked the nipple again, but this time maintained his grip on the swollen teat. 'Perhaps you are deserving of a good fucking now, after all.'

  'Yes, m-master,' Kitty whined. 'I'll be a good girl, I s-swear it!'

  Adam laughed, a malicious rumble. 'I think another ten minutes, to be on the safe side,' he taunted her, suddenly slapping her naked flank which set the horse rocking faster again. 'And let's see you ride your fine steed on your own, eh? Show me how good you are and then we'll see about giving you a mount of a different kind!'

  Simon Wickstanner entwined his fingers nervously and stared across at his guest, who sat in the high-backed chair on the opposite side of the huge rectory fireplace to the chair that Wickstanner habitually occupied.

  'You will not harm the girl permanently, Master Crawley?' he said, not for the first time. 'I wish her no permanent ill, you understand, simply that whatever devils are within her be expunged and that she see the error of her ways and return to the Mother Church.'

  'And to the protection of your own good offices, no doubt,' Crawley said, only the flickering of one eye betraying the irony in his statement. He leaned back, held up his wine goblet to the light and pursed his lips.

  'Mistress Pennywise will come to no permanent harm, not if you are willing to accept her confession and bestow the Lord's mercy upon her,' he said. 'But I suggest that we do not rush these things. A few more days spent in the crypt chambers beneath the church will do her soul no harm at all, and then I shall parade her through the village, as a warning to other would-be heretics.'

  He extended his goblet as Wickstanner picked up the wine decanter and leaned forward to offer it.

  'Of course, in the old days she would have been hanged on the green,' he said, 'after a public flogging and a day at the stake to reflect upon her sins. Nowadays, of course, their lordships, in their wisdom, prescribe a far more merciful approach, though whether mercy in this life is any sort of blessing to the soul that eventually faces heavenly judgement is a moot point, in my opinion.'

  'Erm, well, yes,' Wickstanner agreed, topping the wine in his own goblet, 'but Mistress Pennywise's sins are not such as they cannot be atoned for in this life, I am sure. She simply needs to see the error of her ways, as do so many modern young women.'

  'No discipline,' Crawley sneered. 'No respect, not for their God, their saviour, nor for their elders and betters. For my own sins, the Good Lord has seen fit to bestow upon me the task of restoring the discipline into their ungrateful lives.'

  'I heard you whipping her,' Wickstanner said, 'and I know that you have shaved her hair completely.' His tongue ran along his top lip and his eyes twitched.

  'All sources of pride must be taken from or beaten from one such as she,' Crawley said, his voice flat, as if repeating a litany. 'Remove a woman's clothing and jewellery, remove her hair even, and what is there to remain proud of? And the lash scourges unclean and unworthy thoughts from within, baring her soul as surely as we have bared her flesh.'

  'I understand, Master Crawley,' Wickstanner nodded. He paused, seeming to reflect for several seconds. 'You, ah, enjoy your work, Master Crawley?' he ventured at last.

  Crawley fixed him with a long hard stare. 'My enjoyment, or otherwise, is of no account, priest,' he growled. 'I go where God bids and do as he sees fit to direct me. I seek out sin and abomination and first punish and then, by his good grace, expunge it.'

  'Of course, Master Crawley,' Wickstanner agreed hurriedly, 'I was not suggesting otherwise, simply that maybe the Good Lord has seen fit to grant you a sense of pride and achievement in your crusade against his enemies?'

  'Aye,' Crawley said, 'he has seen fit to grant me that, 'tis true, for without that, He in his Almighty wisdom, knows that I should not be able to serve him as well as I humbly pray I now do.'

  The two men fell silent again; a silence that lasted perhaps two minutes and was eventually broken by the witchfinder.

  'You have sent a message to the wench's grandmother, as I instructed?' he said.

  Wickstanner nodded. 'I sent the verger's boy to her cottage, telling her to be here at sunrise tomorrow.'

  'And you think she will pay a tribute to our Lord, in return for His sparing of her mortal body?'

  'I believe she will, yes.' Wickstanner rose stiffly and moved to the low dresser that ran half the length of the room. 'She has money aplenty,' he said, examining the remaining row of decanters, 'for I know how much she receives each quarter day and she never seems to spend any of it. She will argue, though, for even I know enough of her to know that she is a strong-willed old harridan, despite her years.'

  'Then perhaps I shall see her myself,' Crawley said, in a tone that removed any hint of a suggestion in the statement. 'I am sure I can convince her and one sight of her sinful granddaughter will make sure that she understands what I am telling her.'

  He rose in turn, holding up a hand and shaking his head when Wickstanner finally decided upon a wine and turned to bring the decanter back to the fireside.

  'No more, Father Wickstanner,' he said, turning to retrieve his cape from the high chair back. 'I shall return later to sleep, but I must return to the church and continue in my efforts with the heretic. The whole village must see what consorting with evil means and then, mayhap, when we come to the others you have listed, perhaps we shall not have to resort to such extreme measures.

  'Besides,' he added, throwing the long black cloak about his shoulders, 'their families are not in such a position to offer as good a pecuniary recompense to the Church, eh? So we don't want to waste unnecessary time and effort on lesser sinners, do we, my reverend friend?'

  The pistol shots sounded like cannon fire in the quiet night air, jerking Sarah Merridew from the half sleep into which she had fallen. She saw immediately that the pale young man opposite had now become even paler in the faint light from the interior lamp and the old woman, though she did not move from her huddled corner, looked all about with darting and frightened eyes.

  'What is it?' Sarah hissed, sitting forward and almost pitching headlong as one wheel of the coach hit a particularly deep rut.

  'Highwaymen,' croaked the woman, almost without opening her mouth. 'Bin gettin' a bit active along these roads of late, so I hear tell.'

  'Highwaymen?' The clerical looking young man now looked almost transparent, his watery eyes huge and round. 'But I have nothing of value.'

  'Me neither, dearie,' the old woman snickered, 'so they can wave their pistols about as much as they like, for all I care.' She closed her eyes, feigning indifference, but the tone of her voice told Sarah that she was just as frightened as any of them.

  From outside came the sound of a cracking whip, loud shouts from the driver above and the sound of two more shots, followed by a loud cry of pain, presumably, Sarah thought, from the driver or his mate. Almost immediately she heard the shouts to the horses and the coach began to slow.

  Desperately Sarah delved into her purse bag, took out the few coins that remained there and tucked half of them inside her bodice, praying they would not slip through and fall out onto the floor. The remainder, all small denominations, she returned inside the wash-leather and drew the string close
d again.

  'Best hope they don't want to get too fruity with you, lass,' the old woman cackled and turning, Sarah saw that her eyes were wide open again and that she had been watching her every action.

  'I have so little,' Sarah whispered defensively. 'All our money went after the last plague outbreak.'

  The old woman nodded. 'None of us has much nowadays,' she said, and then a small smile spread across her wrinkling features. 'Don't worry, dearie, I shan't say anything,' she promised, soothingly. 'Just stay calm and give them that ring you're wearing and what's left in the purse. Anyone can see you ain't exactly nobility. Besides, they'll be more interested in the post box up top, I reckon.'

  Sarah stared down at the plain gold band and for a moment was tempted to pull the ring off and place that inside her bodice, too. 'This ring,' she said hoarsely, 'it was my mother's. It is all I have left to remember her by.'

  'A ring is just a ring,' the woman said bluntly. 'You got your mother up here.' She tapped her forehead. 'Give 'em the ring and the coin and let them get on their way. No sense in bringing more trouble.'

  Sarah sniffed, opened her mouth to say something else and then closed it again. She began to ease the ring free, blinking back a tear that threatened to fall as she did so.

  Chapter 4

  Breathing heavily, her cheeks burning, Kitty walked slowly towards Adam, who now stood waiting for her, naked from the waist down, his organ rampant. She saw the look of triumph in his eyes and the almost dismissive look of contempt on his face and new that he had succeeded in achieving exactly what he had set out to do.

  Between her legs she now felt wet, as well as hot, her swollen labia parting to reveal the pink tunnel in which the memory of the leather covered phallus was only too recent and too real. She clenched her buttocks, contracting her vaginal muscles, aching to have her hands free, but knowing that her bondage was all part of the scenario. Without the use of her hands there was only one source of final relief available to her, and that now stood to attention before its gloating owner, seemingly beckoning her towards it.

  'Come on then, Titty Kitty,' Adam taunted, 'let's see you mount this saddle.' She was almost to him now and she could feel the heat from his breath. Slowly, she pressed up against him, rubbing her lower stomach up and down the length of his shaft, moaning quietly as she did so. His hands came up, cupping her breasts, and she shuddered.

  'Good girl, Kitty,' he whispered, his lips close to her ear. 'Now tell your master what it is you want.'

  'I want,' Kitty grated, grinding her teeth in a mixture of lust and humiliation, 'I want my master to fuck me for the worthless slave whore I am.' She leaned into him, nuzzling into his neck as she raised herself onto tiptoes. His hands left her breasts and moved downwards, slipping behind her until they cupped her buttocks.

  'Time to mount, then,' he leered, and she felt herself being lifted clear of the floor, his throbbing member sliding further down, until it slipped between her parting thighs. With a small squeal she lifted her legs, wrapping them about his waist, preying he would not lose his hold on her, but he was clearly a powerful man for he supported her easily, even freeing one had in order to guide himself into her sex.

  'There, Titty Kitty,' he said, 'can you feel that now, just inside your hot little cunny?'

  'Oooh, yes, master,' she gurgled, surprised at how much his weapon was stretching her, for the phallus on the rocking horse had seemed big enough. A moment later she let out a shriek as he once again gripped her with two hands and forced her down, impaling her fully with one thrust.

  'Nicely filled now, slave slut?' he laughed as her eyes rolled wildly. Kitty nodded, trying to speak but simply gasping instead. She tried to focus on his face, but his features simply blurred and floated before her in a curious kaleidoscope.

  'Yes, indeed,' she heard him say as he began slowly to lift and lower her, 'I think you'll fetch a fine price by the time I'm finished with you, eh girlie?' But Kitty was no longer paying any heed to him, nor did she any more care about what the future might hold, for the first wave of orgasm had already risen up to wash over her and now she was in danger of drowning in the lust he had aroused within her treacherous body.

  Matilda said not a word as Jacob Crawley placed the iron collar about her throat and clicked the locking mechanism shut. She did not even look at him directly, keeping her eyes lowered and half closed.

  'Well, my little devil's bitch,' he rasped, clipping a length of rope to the heavy ring set into the front of the collar, 'now we have you suitably leashed, let's take you for a little walk, shall we?' He gave a tug on the coarse hemp and Matilda stumbled forward, falling into step with him as he led the way towards the open doorway.

  Once through, he turned left into the arched passageway and strode casually along, his boots echoing hollowly on the ancient flagstones, whilst Matilda's bare feet made merely the softest of pattering sounds. They walked what Matilda guessed had to be the entire length of the church above and then, finally, Crawley stopped before a heavy, studded timber door.

  'I found this chamber earlier,' he said, taking a crude key from his belt. 'Even the priest had no idea it was here. See?' He pushed open the door, which groaned on little used hinges and stepped back, thrusting Matilda in ahead of him.

  Two lanterns already burned inside, hanging from hooks set in the ceiling and, by their light, she saw the hideous looking structures that must have lain here unused for many years, though there was evidence that someone - either Crawley or one of his henchmen - had made a recent attempt at cleaning away the layers of dust that must have accumulated on them meantime.

  Matilda recognised the heavy stocks immediately, as she did the pillory, but she had to peer closer before she recognised the crude rack for what it was. There was also an iron-ribbed cage, shaped in roughly human form, standing propped in the furthest corner and, on a wide bench, several other implements had been laid out.

  'This will do to start with, I think,' Crawley said, leading her towards the bench and selecting something that looked, at first sight, like a leather bag. 'The hide was a bit stiff, but it had been wrapped in oilskins and Silas has been dubbing it well this afternoon.'

  Before Matilda had time to react he had drawn the hood - for that was what it was - down over her head, pulling it about her neck and thrusting the lower edges between the iron collar and her flesh. For a few moments Matilda started to panic, the heavy odour of leather and whatever it was that Silas had used to make it more supple again filling her nostrils, so that she thought she would suffocate.

  However, as Crawley moved behind her and began to draw laces tight, the hood began to mold itself to the contours of her shaven head, eyeholes slipped down so that she could once again see and two smaller apertures were drawn up beneath her nose, so that whilst the aroma from the foul garment was still all pervading, at least she was once again able to breathe some air. In addition, she realised, there was also a small slit level with her mouth.

  'Now you cannot even use your pretty witch features to beguile God fearing men,' Crawley rasped, turning her around so he could look at her now featureless face. 'And now we should do something about stilling your vile tongue.'

  The metal contraption was an old scold's bridle, something Matilda had only previously seen in picture books at her former home. The iron bands were dull, but any rust appeared to have been removed and the hinges showed traces of having been oiled. Her initial reaction was to draw back, attempt to resist having the cruel device placed upon her head, but she quickly realised that such an action was futile and likely only to earn her even more dire retribution.

  A few moments later she stood there, the bridle heavy upon her, the vicious pronged tongue flange thrusting in through the small mouth opening, pressing down so that it rendered even the most primitive speech attempts painful in the extreme.

  'Very fetching, witch whore,' Crawley snickered. 'And now for your feet. Such dainty toes might tempt the chastity of even the most devout man, and it is w
ell known that witches move silently to come upon the unwary.'

  The boots were heavy, like farmer's boots, except that the thick leather appeared to have been reinforced with metal strands and the soles, as Crawley explained, were made of solid iron. As he stooped to lace them up Matilda's slim calves, she realised that as masculine as they appeared, they had been made to fit a female foot and shuddered as she wondered how many other unfortunates had been made to wear these awful things in the distant past.

  'They used to call these penance boots,' Crawley told her. 'An unfaithful woman would be made to wear these for a week and every day would have to walk the bounds of the parish, which is what you will do either tomorrow or the next day, depending.'

  He laughed harshly. 'And the iron is good, as iron imprisons the powers of evil. The more iron you wear, witch whore, the less your powers to resist will become. See here,' he added, picking up two circular iron bands, the inside edges of which were serrated like saw blades, 'let's see if you can work out what these are for.'

  With a gurgle of horror in her throat Matilda tried to pull back, for there was only one purpose for which these things could be intended, but there was no escaping and soon her distended nipples were clamped painfully within the two circles and a length of chain hung between them, dangling coldly against her breastbone.

  'That should hold you, devil whore,' Crawley sneered. 'Now, let's see whether you're hiding any marks upon this witch body, shall we?'