‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I…I am frightened,’ Lalage managed. ‘You…you are so large. I am scared…scared I will tear.’
‘You are supposed to,’ he answered, grinning. ‘Now come, I don’t want to have to strike you, so get your mouth to work. Suck on my balls first.’
Lalage nodded weakly and shuffled between his knees. His scrotum was hanging entirely out of his clout, the balls moving beneath the wrinkled surface. Swallowing her distaste, she bent down. Her mouth came open. His hand closed on the back of her neck, and the two fat balls were fed to her.
She began to suck, struggling not to gag on the huge, hairy mouthful, or the strong taste of unwashed male. He kept his hand on her neck, just firmly enough to keep her in place, and began to sip his wine. Lalage concentrated on her task and tried to ignore the responses of her body as her nipples came hard and her sex began to juice in automatic, helpless response to what she was doing. Lubeck paid no attention, drinking and watching her suck on his balls as his cock slowly filled with blood. He was half erect before he decided to have his cock sucked. Releasing Lalage’s head, he took hold of it, to peel back the foreskin over the moist red tip.
‘Now my cock,’ he ordered. ‘Are you not a lucky girl?’
Lalage managed a nod as her mouth filled with penis. He took hold of her head again, to guide her up and down as she sucked on his shaft. Soon she was struggling, unable to accommodate as much cock as he wanted her to. He just pushed harder, forcing the now engorged head into her throat to set her gagging. Lalage sucked all the harder, praying he would come before he decided to deflower her, or pass out from the wine. Neither happened, Lubeck drinking and fucking her mouth until his cock was rock hard, then pulling her head up.
‘Time to pop your cunt, little Lalage,’ he announced. ‘Stand, let me see you again.’
Reluctantly, Lalage climbed to her feet, He watched as she performed a brief pirouette, then bent to take her ankles, still acting, despite the great bubble of panic building up inside her. He chuckled, and spoke.
‘Yes, I think I’ll have you arse up. That way I can watch you tear, and admire your fine arse as well. On the bed.’
She stepped back, to climb onto the bed. He swallowed the rest of his wine in one great draught and stood up, taking his erect cock in hand.
‘Strong wine,’ he remarked, steadying himself against the bedpost. ‘Come, kneel, show me that little arse.’
Lalage began to get into a kneeling position, lifting her bottom for penetration, as she had before, only this time not in the hole she had come to use, and enjoy. The bed creaked under his weight.
‘Eager little slut, aren’t you?’ he drawled. ‘Now reach back. Spread my target for me. Show me the pink of your virgin flesh.’
Something inside Lalage snapped. Suddenly she was scrambling from the bed. Lubeck just laughed, taking hold of his cock as he came after her.
‘So there is some fight in you?’ he called. ‘Good! Run then, little one, run all you like, but you will be fucked at the end, you know, fucked as I choose to.’
He made a dart for Lalage’s side of the bed. She scrambled across it, only to be forced to jump from the side as his brawny arm shot out, snatching at her. As she hit the floor she stumbled, and for one awful moment she thought he had her, only to realise that he had gone down on the bed, off balance, the aloes at last taking effect.
As she darted away he pulled himself to his feet, cursing and shaking his head, with one great hand on the bed post. His cock had begun to soften, but there was anger in his eyes, and realisation of what had been done to him.
‘You…you’ve drugged me, you little witch!’ he managed. ‘By the Lord I’ll…’
He broke off as the door by the bed opened. Josepina stepped into the room, her face showing as much anger as his. She began to speak, only for the words to come out in a yelp as Lalage cannoned past her, knocking her to the floor.
The corridor was empty. Lalage ran, hurling herself at the door opposite. It burst open, revealing stacked furniture, rolled carpets and dust rising in beams of weak sunlight. A shout of anger sounded behind her, then Josepina’s high pitched cry for help. She was at the window, wrenching it wide. Outside were the wooden roofs of huts, the sooty brick of wall tops, and a great tawny dog, ten feet below her.
For an instant Lalage paused. Madam Amicia’s voice sounded behind her, calling her name in anger. Terrified, she scrambled onto the window sill, kicked away her shoes, jumped, and caught herself on the roof of a hut. The dog gave tongue immediately, and leapt up, his paws scrabbling on the wall just inches from the top. Lalage ran, jumping to the wall and scampering along it, almost unbalancing as a second dog leapt up at her, seemingly from nowhere.
Again it fell short, and she was beyond the brothel yard, on the wall between two others. Behind her the window crashed wide. Madam Amicia screamed at her to stop. The dogs went into a tumult of excited barking. A crumbling brick gave way beneath Lalage’s foot. Her balance went. She snatched at air, jumped, to land badly in the yard below. Grimacing in pain, she staggered forward, past the wheels of one carriage, then another. There was an arch ahead, the street beyond, and people, walking in the bright afternoon sunlight.
She was limping as she came out into the street, sharp pain shooting through one ankle with every step. Faces turned, registering surprise and disapproval as they took in her nudity, and the nature of the few clothes she had. She ignored them, hobbling forward. One woman spat at her shadow, another spoke.
‘Dirty harlot! Get back where you belong!’
‘Please,’ Lalage begged, ‘the waterfront, the Sea Lord Inn, which way?’
The woman gave a sniff of distaste and turned quickly away. Lalage stopped, forcing herself to think. Tall houses reared to either side, blocking the view, yet the nunnery had been visible from the upper windows of the brothel, to the left.
She ran, fighting down the pain of her twisted ankle, past houses, past carts and carriages, horses and people, hundreds of people, staring, shouting at her. A street passed, and another. Somewhere behind her she caught the baying of a dog, and ran faster, her pain dulled by raw fear. A wider street showed ahead. She reached it, and suddenly she was on the front, the sign of the Sea Lord no more than a hundred paces away. She made for it, the crowds parting in front of her as if she was diseased, and pushed in.
Customers looked up, in alarm as the door slammed back to her thrust, then shock and disgust as they saw her clearly. The landlord bellowed a demand, which she ignored, running to where the lanky potboy was staring at her in astonishment.
‘Lalage?’ he queried. ‘Lalage Vergelesses?’
‘Help me, Inez,’ she gasped. ‘Go to the nunnery…no, to the palace, this evening. Demand to speak to the Quaestor…the Father Urian Thane, no other. Tell him what has become of me…what they have made me…’
‘I…I can not,’ he answered. ‘I must work…there is a feast to…’
She snatched him to her, babbling her words out.
‘Do it, I beg you, Inez. Look at me, Inez. You can have me, as you did before…many times…anything…please?’
‘Wants us to hide her, does she, the little slut?’ the landlord’s voice grated in her ear. ‘Don’t listen to her, or you’ll end up at the wrong end of a club. There’s ten crowns and a free go for returning these little beauties, and I intend to do just that.’
His hand closed hard on her arm, even as the door burst open once more to reveal the massive black clad bulk of a brothel Salvatora. Exhausted, utterly defeated, Lalage collapsed into the Landlord’s grip.
Lalage lay spread-eagled on the massive bed. An iron cuff encircled each limb, at ankles and wrist. Each cuff led to one of the four bedposts, holding her immobile, her naked quim spread wide and lifted by the pillow tucked beneath her bottom. Several people stared down at her naked body, Madam Amicia, two Salvatoras, the merchant Oswin Lubeck. Further back stood a crescent of expectant onlookers. The faces of the
men showed lust, cruelty and amusement, those of the girls more of the same emotions than they did sympathy or fear. To one side stood Flavia, holding the silver cunt hobble and a long, thick stemmed awl. A man in a leather apron stood beside her, with a squat anvil at his feet and a hammer in one hand. Madam Amicia spoke, her voice cold and harsh, without mercy.
‘Master Lubeck wishes to deflower you before your cunt chain is fitted, Lalage. This seems the least we can offer, after the trouble you have caused him. So when you might have been taken in comfort and privacy, you find yourself like this, spread for all to see as your precious hymen is burst and your cunt filled with sperm. And when Master Lubeck is done, your cunt lips will be clamped and pierced, your hobble fitted, for life, you stupid little slut!’
Lalage could only stare back in terror, her body twitching, her stomach knotting violently. Suddenly her bladder went, erupting a great fountain of urine into Madam Amicia’s cleavage and down the front of her dress. The Madam squealed in rage, jumping back to avoid the spray of golden fluid. She stood back, slapping at her sodden chest and cursing as Lalage’s piddle continued to spray out, wetting the bed and the pillow beneath her bottom. Some had pooled in her quim, raising a sneer of disgust from Lubeck.
‘Clean the slut up,’ he demanded.
A girl came forward with a sponge, to mop at Lalage’s quim. Madam Amicia had bustled away, and in the moment of confusion Lalage found her voice.
‘Do not do this…I pray…do not. Please…have mercy!’
Somebody laughed. One man rubbed at his chin, his eyes sparkling in delight at her show of fear. Another spoke, a Salvatora.
‘We have been merciful, most merciful. Did we give you to the dogs?’
There was general laughter. Lalage felt the tears of fear and frustration start in her eyes as she began to babble.
‘Just spare me…please…I beg you, Sisters! Spare me! How can you do this? What right have you? You souls will be damned, damned utterly! How…’
She shut up abruptly as a sour tasting gag was forced between her teeth. It was a stocking, peeled off by Flavia. The other was used to tie the first in place. Lalage was left dumb as well as helpless, still pleading with her eyes as her fear grew to an unbearable peak that left her whole body shaking violently and sent fresh spurts of urine from her quim.
‘I had hoped to hear her scream,’ a man’s voice stated, languid and casual. ‘Do you not wish to hear her screams, Oswin?’
‘I do,’ Lubeck agreed with a leer, ‘best of all when her cunt pops.’
‘I shall take her gag out when the time comes, sirs,’ Flavia promised. ‘For now, perhaps I might help you ready your cock, Master Lubeck?’
Lubeck grunted and put his hands to his breeches. Flavia went to her knees. Lubeck’s cock came out and he moved a pace forward, to push it towards her mouth. She took his balls and began to suck, the others watching with interest as his cock began to grow. Lalage could only stare, wriggling helpless in her chains as the fat penis that was about to be put to her quim grew in Flavia’s mouth. Soon it was hard, a rigid pole of flesh in the girl’s mouth, ready for her, ready to break the membrane that held her pure, that held her virgin…
She began to panic, thrashing wildly against her chains, tossing her head from side to side, squirming her body with mad, hopeless energy. The Salvatoras took her limbs, forcing her down onto the bed. Still she fought, all rationality gone, her vision hazy with tears, her stomach squirming in raw fear. She heard the hiss of coals as the awl was pushed in to the brazier. The smell of burning caught her nose. The bed creaked and she knew Lubeck was on it. His bulk loomed up above her. Madam Amicia’s voice sounded, politely apologising for leaving, and for Lalage wetting herself.
The round, firm head of Lubeck’s cock touched her cunt. Her hymen pushed in, straining to the cock head. Her breath came out in one long, wordless scream, a scream immediately echoed by others. Fresh screams, shouts, curses rang out on all sides. Lubeck yelled in frustration. The pressure came off Lalage’s maidenhead, and the scarlet coats of church troops were all around her even as she fainted away.
* * *
The prod of a musket butt sent Lalage staggering onto the grass of the chapel close. A Novice took one look at the tattered remains of her golden corset and scurried to the side in fear.
Others stood on every side. A great ring of soldiers surrounded them, both in the scarlet livery of church troops and in regimental colours, hemming in the milling, frightened crowd. Nuns and priests gathered in small knots or knelt in prayer on the grass, the black, white and grey of their robes in striking contrast to the gaudy corsets and stockings of the harlots from the three brothels. One woman alone stood out, in a blue silk dress of elegant cut, her pale blonde hair adorned simply with flowers — Lucilla. Immediately Lalage made for her, Lucilla turning in surprise as they came close.
‘Lalage? What has happened? Do you know why the soldiers are here? Why are you dressed like…like such a slut.’
‘I have been made a harlot,’ Lalage responded. ‘So have these others…’
‘A harlot!?’ Lucilla demanded. ‘No, surely…’
‘Yes, Lucilla. The six of us who failed Supplication were put to work as harlots. Each year as many are taken, to staff the brothels of St Quay. This is where the true wealth of the Order derives.’
‘From selling the bodies of the girls!? Oh, Lord! And now you face justice, from the Quaestors?’
‘Justice comes to all who sin, as the Blessed Bulla tells us. I myself sent to the Quaestors.’
‘Are you mad!? You do know what they will do to you? Did you think you would be spared? They show mercy to none, save only each other!’
‘I know. Stay beside me, Lucilla.’
‘Beside you, a harlot?’
She paused, her eyes wide in fear, then spoke again.
‘Very well, you have been my friend and my lover, let it not be said that there is no honour in my family.’
Lalage nodded and took Lucilla’s hand in hers, both turning to face the centre of the close, where a dais had been erected beside the pillories. Two figures were on top of it, a lean, grey-haired man Lalage recognised as the Commander of the St Quay garrison, and Quaestor Urian Thane seated on a low stool in his purple robe. A second robe lay folded in his lap, of white silk fringed with purple.
‘My father shall hear of this!’ Lucilla hissed. ‘My uncle also!’
‘Be assured of it,’ Lalage answered as the Quaestor rose to speak.
Absolute silence descended on the crowd. Thane let his eyes move over them once, then spoke, his voice calm and measured.
‘Let the Lord be my witness, as this day I make condemnation of the Order of Our Lady of St Quay…’
He stopped abruptly. A figure had stepped forward from the ranks, the Prioress, tall and straight in her white robes.
‘Who makes the accusation?’ she demanded. ‘You can not condemn us without accusation!’
‘The accusation is extensive, I believe,’ he answered calmly.
‘By whom is it brought? You have barely begun your work! What evidence do you have?’
‘A sufficiency, I trust, collected over some months. Quaestora Vergelesses, pray step forward.’
Lalage stepped from the ranks. A wash of angry sound swept over the crowd, to die as she climbed up to the dais.
‘Blessed Father,’ she said softly, bowing her head to the Quaestor.
‘My child,’ he answered, nodding. ‘I thank you for your sacrifice.’
‘There is no sacrifice, Blessed Father,’ she answered, taking up her robe. ‘I am intact.’
Lalage quickly pulled on her robe. Strength immediately flowed into her, and a fierce joy. She turned to the crowd, forcing herself to calm. Lucilla was staring at her in stark terror, with a wet stain spreading rapidly across the front of her skirts. Lalage held her face expressionless, letting her gaze flick from face to face among the crown, to Sister Verena, to Elder Sister Aspasia, to the Salvatora Ma
rah, to the Blessed Mother Berengaria Aesu herself, and back to Lucilla. Lifting her chin, she began to speak.
‘I, Quaestora Lalage Vergelesses of the Order of St Aidan, now bring accusation. My statement, prima, is that the Tesserette Lucilla d’Ortaise St Seraphina is a model of the virtues, a credit to her great family, and stands absolved from this accusation in sum and in part. My statement, secunda, is that the Order of Our Lady of St Quay is deserving of condemnation, for the sale of the Lord’s most precious gift, for the practise of pagan abomination, for heresy great and less, for sacrilege, for blasphemy, for covetous desire, for falsity of practise…’
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Whipping Girl Page 24
