“Please I must release myself!”
Almost instantly, she felt the hard sting of a cane thwacked against her rear.
She jumped up, nearly losing the swelling liquid in her behind.
“Oh, please!” she cried in anguish, but she was pushed back down and forced to hold the liquid for several more painful minutes. While she grimaced, her torturers scowled amused, shaking their heads in gleeful delight as she squirmed before them. Finally, they gave her a bucket, saying:
“Clean up after yourself, girl.”
By that time, Roslyn had no bite left in her tortured body. At least she was clean and sweet-smelling, once she’d taken care of her bowels. Afterwards, the women doused her with perfumes bought from the traveling merchants so that she smelled like a flower, as delicate as she looked—hardly like the spat on, tormented young woman who had been brought in from the streets.
“This’ll be your playing field, milady Roslyn,” a woman named Anne spoke. She was the kind one. Once a dark-haired beauty, her looks were faded now; her eyes were sad and her manner defeated, as women of her station often become after their usefulness to men is over. “There was a time when I was the favorite at the Duke’s orgies. But you see me now?” She stared down at her stained dress, her care-worn body. “They say I’m too used up to satisfy the fancy men who want a nubile female.” She sighed more from weariness than discontent. “So, I spread me legs for the rough crowd out there,” she pointed toward the village. “I’d miss it otherwise. You get used ta the feelings in your belly when you ‘ave it all the time. You can’t do without that bit of wildness. Thank goodness there’s always some man who’ll want me, even if they aren’t the handsome, rich ones.”
Roslyn took pity on her, which was not the woman’s aim. She intended to instruct the initiate, fearing that this nobleman’s daughter would have little clue what fate awaited her in Duke Wilhem’s court.
Once she was washed and sweet-smelling, Roslyn was taken into another room where she was dressed, while the waiting Celia took her turn cleaning her foul body. Unlike the attention poured on her Mistress, Celia was given little assistance, just told to wash herself.
In that other room, a thick old woman walked around the naked Roslyn, inspecting the pretty young woman with great interest. “So, he says you is to wear somethin’ fittin’ of a lady, even though yous to be nothing but a whore.” She chuckled under her breath, letting out a little hissing sound. The woman plucked at Roslyn’s body again and again as she made her rounds.
All this made Roslyn feel like a nest of spiders was crawling over her skin; she wanted to shake off the creepy feeling, but she dared not move. She hated the way the buds of her pink nipples shriveled into tiny erections, tips purple and filled with blood. A dreadful warmth had filled her belly and was moving downward to her crotch, where she knew that the horrid result would be a moist and fragrant snatch. Would the woman notice?
“Well, I sees we have little to do with you. This nice rump,” she swatted Roslyn’s naked behind, “and these titties will get the gents rock hard,” she slapped a tit as well and Roslyn jumped back nervously. “Don’t you get testy with me, dearie, I’m not the one you should be afeared of.”
“I’m so sorry,” she readily came. She was ‘afeared’ of everyone now that her status as a noble woman had turned her into a pariah.
The woman gave Roslyn’s nose ring a gentle tug.
“Ouch!”
“Still hurts? Will for days, I know that. Had one meself for a time. But never one below.” Her fingers fished around Roslyn’s privates, seeming to enjoy the feel of the youthful flesh. “Little wet, aren’t you?” she snickered. “For being so disgusted and all.”
Roslyn could not respond.
“That’s okay. It’s as much nerves as anything,” she said, as if she knew firsthand the shame Roslyn now suffered.
With that, the hefty woman wobbled toward a nearby cabinet and dug in with one pudgy hand, pulling this and that from inside, obviously searching for something in particular. Finally finding what she was looking for, she wobbled back, holding in her hand a golden collar made of thin bands woven together in a fancy scrollwork. The piece was really quite lovely, and when fitted around Roslyn’s neck, it gave her a distinctly regal look, befitting her nobility. Had she worn a proper dress, the collar might well have accentuated her loveliness, now it simply drew attention to the naked body below.
“Surprised the Duke didn’t pierce these, too,” the woman said, while plucking each nipple enough so Roslyn squealed each time. The woman then moved to another cabinet where she drew out a garment that was then fitted about Roslyn’s hips like a skirt. Although, as it was made of a transparent silk in a golden hue, it did very little to hide the treasure that lay on the other side. Again, the onlooker would be enticed by what they saw and inspired to look closer at the delicately lush pubic ‘V’, and her nicely rounded bottom.
“That be enough!” the woman finally declared with some satisfaction. “I believe the Duke will attach the bells himself, likes to do that with ‘is bitches. You go now,” she pushed Roslyn toward the door. “They be awaitin’ ya.”
Already the clamor of voices from the great hall could be heard engaged in high-spirited conversation. So reminiscent of feasts she’d attended in her home, the excitement of the gathering invaded Roslyn’s body, even though she knew that this was no such humane assemblage. Indeed, the moment she appeared in the door, nervous as a young child in a room of people twice their size, Roslyn was looked at, scrutinized, and officiously probed by a crowd of well-dressed noblemen and ladies. An entire gauntlet of hands inspected, fondled and toyed with her body as she attempted to move between them, until she was finally, by some magical means, on the other side of the crowd, not two feet from where Duke Wilhem and his wife, Josephine, sat in their regal splendor on beautifully carved chairs.
“Why, what a pretty one! Look at that hair,” the lady exclaimed on first seeing Roslyn. “Who’d have ever thought!”
“Ah! She is a prize,” the Duke agreed. “To think that Ledo would have a daughter as comely as this girl!”
Lady Josephine seemed to squirm in her seat, as if she were feeling a sexual thrill just eyeing the young red-haired prize. She herself had never been the beauty that Roslyn was. Her thick black hair and white skin made her look like the mythical witch of the old tales. Her thin lips were painted bright red and her eyelids had been deliberately darkened with a sooty cream that gave them a shadowy glow. Her smile was as shrill as her voice, and in her lap she held a grey Persian cat that she stroked with long thin fingers—none of which dispelled the feeling in Roslyn that the woman was pure evil. Roslyn imagined that she might be easy to hate—and hadn’t she been warned about her?
“Come here, my dear, and sit with us,” the Duke welcomed her with open arms and a lusty smile.
Though her natural instincts made her recoil, Roslyn obeyed, finding herself standing before the man as he inspected her body with great consideration. So many times in the last months she’d been so scrutinized; she would have thought that she’d be used to the probing eyes and the judgmental air. But no, she was not!
“Ah, yes, you are perfect!” he exclaimed with some awe, after running his hand inside Roslyn’s skirt and tugging a bit on the clitoral ring.
Roslyn bit her lip, trying to respond as little as possible when a hot pain rifled through her.
“Get used to it, little lady,” Josephine drolly declared. “Pain makes you weak and powerless, turns the proud into begging fools. You’re here so we can see you beg, so we can watch you grovel, while we think of your father and that repulsive uncle Draydon. Imagine—the man must have wanted you taken, giving you to that brutish Drago.” With her husband having stopped the torture of Roslyn’s clitoris, she reached in herself and gave the ring a fierce tug.
“Yeeeeeeeeech!” Roslyn shrieked. Her eyes pooled with hot tears.
“Yes, you cry, dear,” the queenish bitty, sneered. “
Get acquainted with your tears, they will be your only succor.”
Overcome by the rawness of her emotions, Roslyn blurted out, “Why do you hate me so! You know nothing of who I am!” She looked from the Duke to his wife, as her welling tears spilled from her eyes.
The Duke shook his head, while his petulant expression turned seriously grim, “We know the treachery of your ancestors, girl. The hatred between the old clans was fashioned long ago. In time, it has only burgeoned in intensity. Better you were born a poor peasant as be the noble daughter of Draydon house. If you were male, you would have been drawn and quartered by now – or if pretty enough,” he added slyly, “sodomized in our dungeons. But because your body is so ripe, so youthful, so exquisitely made, so female, and your cunt so fresh and usable, we have other plans for you. It’s for you to decide if you got the better deal. At least you live.”
Josephine laughed in mockery, while Roslyn paled—the truth dawning on her now; neither the Duke nor his wife were toying with her. The strength of their venomous passions poured out on her in a turbulent wave that nearly made her faint. She caught herself, stepping back slightly.
Within the instant, the hard-hearted Duke altered his grim mood and smiled broadly once more, acting like the gracious host. “You’ll sit here,” he said, pointing to a pillow at his feet. Although before she took her seat, he attached a chain to her nose ring. “Instant punishment,” he advised her giving the ring a tug. “Now sit.”
And so Lady Roslyn sat like a princess on a purple pillow at Duke Wilhem’s feet. He kept the chain slack, though Roslyn was aware that any second he might give the thing a nasty tug. At times during the evening, his fingers would comb through her auburn hair, stroking her as gently as his wife stroked the prissy feline in her lap. The scene of the trio was quite a sight: a rich tableau comprised of the noble Duke and his Duchess, each with their personal pets securely collared and leashed.
The evening’s festivities began when Celia entered the room, much the same way that Roslyn had, although she was spared the groping introduction. Instead, the crowd was pushed back to the sidelines and the girl moved to the center of the room. She’d been leashed by one of the Duke’s aides, and that leash was attached to her clitoral ring, along with a bell that would announce her presence anywhere she went. Unlike Roslyn, she was totally naked, no fancy collar to signify nobility, no transparent skirt to veil her privates from immediate view.
“Such a delicate rose. What a shame to see her marred,” the Duke remarked slyly, just before he announced with great bravado: “Let her be tortured!”
This was the cue for a rope to be lowered enough so that the girl’s hands could be bound above her head. Once they were securely tied, the rope was pulled up tight forcing Celia’s body to dangle with her toes barely touching the floor.
Whips appeared, and canes, and a dozen floggers. The men came forth, as well as several ladies, each taking turns, some working in tandem, laying powerful blows against the pale-skinned beauty’s quivering flesh. From all directions, the cuts of canes and biting leather whipped the girl’s body in a fierce and even angry punishment, as if all the sins of her world were in this place, born inside her body, there for a retribution as just as a morning sunrise. Though Celia had been through rough punishments before, the erratic intensity of this one took her by surprise as she screamed from the very outset, moving in fitful, swaying motions within her simple but vulnerable bondage. With no means to steady herself, panic struck as fiercely as the blows that landed in their inelegant patterns. Her body was criss-crossed with welts across her breasts and down her thighs, and while many cuts were concentrated on her belly, others were etched along her shoulders and back. A prime target was her well-rounded ass, which was worked over until her flesh became raw and in places she’d begun to bleed.
Roslyn watched stunned. Her body felt every blow batter her spirit. Every cry came down on her, as she understood that she, not Celia, was the reason for this terrible beating. She looked away, only to look back again—her eyes seemed to fuse with the girl—and so overcome, so filled with pity, she was about to declare to the Duke that she, not Celia, should be taking this beating, when the man himself stopped the brutal castigation.
What Roslyn in her woeful self-indulgence had not seen was how toward the end of the beating, Celia’s demeanor changed. By the time the Duke stopped the exhibition, her body was spent, and yet, it heaved with a powerful arousal that most in the audience understood.
The Duke left Roslyn with Josephine, allowing the nose chain to dangle on the floor as he rose from his seat and strode toward the well-whipped girl. As his hands began to stroke her flesh, he sensed a powerful orgasm in her building quickly—indeed, the whole of the great hall could see, and if not see, feel Celia’s billowing energy for it blanketed them all. Wilhem went directly for her privates, diving in with his fingers, while his other hand locked on to the dangling beauty’s hair and held it at her neck in a tight fist. Soon, the gasping Celia shuddered, and a wave of passion coming from deep in her loins traveled outward in another display of her powerful sexuality.
She sagged limply when she finished and fell against the Duke. To prevent her legs from collapsing, which would have left her dangling by her wrists, he circled her with an arm and held her close.
“Bring her a mat to lie on!” the man called the order into the crowd.
The order was quickly obeyed and the girl cut down and covered with a blanket while she recovered her strength.
Roslyn, who had watched in trance-like fascination, realized that she too was overcome by a furious arousal. It was all she could do not to touch herself; for with just a few simple strokes of her throbbing sex, she’d come. Within seconds of Celia’s climax, however, her intense feelings thankfully calmed.
“It gets a randy cunt sopping, doesn’t it?” Lady Josephine’s pointed whisper was meant for her. Obviously, Roslyn could not hide the truth of her arousal from the woman. She nodded, not knowing what else to do.
“You’ll get yours, never fear,” Josephine warned.
Oh! But she feared for her life—now that she knew how much hatred had been heaped on her for a history of wounds and slights she had nothing to do with. If they killed the males for sport, they would use her just as the Duke warned, until she was worse off than the pitiable woman who bathed her. Roslyn saw her life before her eyes as one torturous moment after another. It had been passion, and a wild savagery that she wanted since she could remember, but it was not this life, not this kind of soulless treatment that she’d prayed for. There was no loving force behind this savagery, no loving arms, no man to hold her at the end, no wondrous moments of blissful sweetness, just what was abject and depraved, what would dishonor and abuse her. How could this be her fate? She felt so young now, so vulnerable, the victim of circumstances she could in no way control…not with the cruel Duke Wilhem.
After nearly an hour of bawdy ballads and more drink to whip this supposedly decent crowd into a frenzy, the evening’s focus returned to Roslyn, who remained the diminished but not forgotten trophy at this feast.
An exorcised Duke, who for a time had joined with the minstrels in their lusty songs, finally came running back toward his wife and Roslyn, wiping his brow with his silk handkerchief.
“Ah,” he sighed breathlessly. “It is time.” He was most enthused and not at all the grim-face prophet of woe he’d earlier been. Now much enlivened by the music and the wine, the stage was set and his excited attention poured out on his pretty, redheaded spoils of war.
He bowed elegantly and spoke with eyebrows raised, “You suppose you would honor us with your presence in the center of my hall?” he asked. The civil question was laced with threat that no one, not even a naïve girl like Roslyn, could miss. At first, she sat back, eyes blinking, staring cowardly at the man, perhaps hoping he’d take pity on her. “Go on,” he shooed her with his hands, “if you can’t muster up the courage, I’ll be happy to help.” This warning did get her mov
ing as she started to rise to her feet. Although before she could find her balance, the Duke pushed her back down on her rump. The chain attached to her nose ring clattered against the stone.
“On your hands and knees, if you will,” he said this most pleasantly, but with an eerie smile that made her blood run cold.
“Oh, please! Don’t make me…” she started with a whisper and stopped, looking up at him hopefully.
“Make you? No, I’m not making you, but you will comply with my request because you understand the alternatives. I think the warnings that have already been given should be ample motivation.”
Perhaps they were, if she thought back to the string of reports and veiled messages and very pointed comments that made up his warnings. She was smart enough to know then that her cooperation was demanded, not just a request, even if it sounded like one.
Without saying more, she moved from the comfort of the plush pillow to her hands and knees, and then crawled like an infant toward the center of the open space—now surrounded by a crowd of increasing size.
The Duke followed her out, staying closely behind her, giving her ass a little kick now and again, which raised some boisterous laughter around the room.
“Give ‘er the boot!” An errant cry rang out. Sounded more like the villagers than the nobles of the Duke’s court! Perhaps they, too, were part of her exhibition. Oh, how horrifying could this become! she wailed inwardly.
“Yes! Beautiful!” the Duke exclaimed as he eyed with lust Roslyn’s upturned behind. “Wiggle that arse of yours, come on, wiggle it for us,” he goaded. “Come on,” he urged more, and when she hesitated, “wiggle that pretty buttocks!”
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