“Now, my dear, I must tell you that I’ve come to see you about a most important matter. One that involves both the Duke and his son.”
Mrs Mason looked across the tea cups with an arch expression on her face which seemed to imply a hidden insight into the mystique of the nobility. Since Diane Mason’s husband was the senior Steward of the Duke of Parsvale’s estate both he and his wife were really no more than glorified servants.
Still, if a cat could look at a king then Diane Mason was certainly in a good position to hear any gossip about the Duke’s doings.
“Really?” Madelaine Swan-Smith answered vaguely.
She wasn’t particularly interested in what was happening at the Ducal Mansion but she was certainly wondering what had brought Diane out to visit her on a day when gusts of rain were pattering against the cottage windows. A miserable day here in Kent, a worse day yet for the British warships in the chops of the Channel keeping watch and ward for any signs of invasion by Bonaparte’s ungodly soldiers.
“Yes, a matter concerning the Duke himself, and his personal wishes in respect of Lord Horace. Have you met his Lordship since your husband took over the living in this parish?”
“No. He has been away at school at Rugby ever since we came here. But we have heard he is a sturdy young man.”
“Yes,” Diane agreed, “Sturdy and well developed, and with an excellent opinion of himself. But before we discuss Lord Horace any further, my dear, let all be made plain between us. You are newly arrived, Madeline, and perhaps lucky to be here. After all, there were plenty of clergymen who would have been very happy to have been granted this living by the Duke. For this parish is part of the Duke’s estates and he decides who preaches here.”
Madeline blinked in surprise at Diane’s bluntness: “It is of course true that we were very happy to come here. It was due to some distant family connections with the Dukedom of Pursvale that Edward obtained his position here, thus allowing us to marry.”
“Precisely so. As I understand it, neither of you have much in the way of independent means and so you are financially reliant on your husband retaining his present position.”
Madeline’s teacup rattled as she set it down angrily on the saucer: “Diane, is that why you’ve made such an uncomfortable journey on such an unpleasant day? Simply in order to insult Edward and myself?”
“My child, of course not. My husband and I are just as dependent on the Duke’s good will as you are yourself. If it were not so I would not be running this important errand. I came here in both our interests.”
Madeline barely stopped herself from snorting in disgust at being addressed as a child by a woman who could hardly be five and twenty, and thus only a few years older than herself. But of course Diane had crossed the great divide of womanhood by having borne her first child, which doubtless made her feel able to adopt such a superior attitude towards a younger wife.
“Perhaps you should explain what you mean.”
“Certainly, Madeline, certainly, but I fear what I may have to say will prove . . . unsettling for you. When do you expect Edward to return?”
Madeline blinked: “Why, not until nightfall. He has gone to Staunton-Under-Stanton to spread the true word amongst the villagers, many of whom are having their silly heads turned by a local Methodist claiming that the word of God can come from a mere blacksmith.”
Both of the women duly smiled at such nonsense, although it crossed Diane Mason’s mind that many people believed that the word of God had come from a mere carpenter. Still, she had far more important fish to fry than quibbling over religious matters.
“Then, my dear, I can speak freely. I have been sent here by his Grace to request a favor from you, a favor which will be warmly appreciated and remembered. A favor, however, which you may find it difficult to reconcile yourself into granting. It has to do with Lord Horace and his desire for some obliging feminine company whilst on his school holidays.”
“Good Lord, Diane, whatever are you suggesting?”
“At this precise moment, I am suggesting nothing,” Diane answered rather tartly. “I’m attempting to explain to you is how things are done on great estates like this. You may have a notion that young aristocrats such as Lord Horace can pick and choose from amongst the local village girls for companionship, but that is certainly not the case. Not because the girls are unwilling, but because the Duke himself is. He believes that any such liaisons are inherently dangerous to the prestige of his family, and to the distance which the aristocracy should properly place between itself and the lower orders of his own estates.
“No, on that point the Duke is quite inflexible. His son is forbidden to ever lay a finger on a farmer’s wife or daughter, be they never so willing. You must understand how valuable these tenants are to the estate’s rent-roll. Some of the families here have been farming these fields since the Doomesday Book was written. Their knowledge and good will is essential to the estate’s wealth and not to be jeopardized for any carnal whims.”
Madeline gaped, astonished at Diane’s bold speaking: “But if Horace wishes to behave in a certain manner, then surely the nearest towns could provide any number of — of ladies of convenience.”
Diane seemed amused: “My dear Madeline, his Grace has far too much respect for his son’s health to expect him hire sixpenny slattons from local taverns. No, what is required are some respectable married ladies who would care to oblige him with discretion in these affairs of honor. Ladies who are willing to join a young knight for an pleasant joust in the lists of love.”
“But Diane, you cannot possibly mean to suggest that I should countenance any kind of improper behavior? I am the wife of a man in holy orders!”
“Which is precisely why I thought of you. You are young, personable, pretty and, as you say, you are the Vicar’s wife. Which means that the Earl could send your husband packing any time he chooses to, taking his pick from twenty other aspiring clerics the day afterwards. Your husband is not one of the farmers that the estate needs to keep it flourishing and his Grace couldn’t give a fig whom attends to this spiritual needs of Pursvale parish, just as long as the sermons on Sundays are kept a short as is decently possible.”
Madeline could find no words to answer, could only sit there in the home she had worked so hard to make, rigid with terror at the prospect of having to pack her belongings and perhaps take up missionary work in some God forsaken wilderness like West Africa or North America.
Clearly attempting to show her sympathy, Diane leaned closer as she continued. “My dear Madeline, I say again that I am in exactly the same situation as you are. My husband could be dismissed from his position at a snap of the Duke’s fingers, so I too must do what I am told, or be turned out into the mud and rain. It is a situation of point nonplus. Let us be sensible therefore and see the thing through together, with never a hint of it to our menfolk, well remembering that what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over. Come, let’s make a game of it and enjoy what we cannot prevent. I can assure you that Lord Horace has a very kindly manner towards those he partners in such ventures.”
Madeline almost spilt her tea: “You mean you’ve already . . .”
Her visitor was apparently unmoved by the prospect of eternal damnation for the carnal sin of adultery. Diane put her own cup back on its saucer without a tremor and answered calmly.
“Madeline, there is no need at all for you to concern yourself about what has happened in the past. All you need to do is whatever is necessary to keep the Duke contented. Have I your permission to speak plainly?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Very well. To recapitulate, Lord Horace will be home from Rugby very soon. His Grace expects that whilst here his son will be given ample opportunity to enjoy himself in the ways that young men of his station are wont to do. I have been asked to make the necessary arrangements. Because you are so suitable I am asking you to help both the Duke and myself in this matter. Can I take it you will be willing to do whatever is needful?”
“Diane, I cannot be involved in any such thing. It could ruin Edward’s career in the church. Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion, and so must the spouse of a man of the cloth.”
Diane Mason rose from her chair and picked up her gloves: “As you wish, my dear, I’ll ring no more peals over you. Where would you like your things sent on to? Africa, India, the Pacific Islands, or China? His Grace receives many appeals from different missionary societies seeking to spread the word of God abroad. Of course wherever you go there’s bound to be malaria and yellow fever and sunstroke to endure, but what are such trifles to a lady of your high principles?”
“Diane!” Madeline looked around her at her furniture, and at the walls of the cozy cottage she had already grown to love. “Very well, you have me in a hobble. Tell me what you wish me to do and I will pray for guidance.”
“What a wise choice, Madeline. England, home and beauty is always the best option and I think Edward would be much happier to continue dealing with the difficult natives of Staunton-Under-Stanton rather than those of Borneo. The Methodists may be a contumelious sect but at least they rarely carry theological dissension to the point of cooking and eating their opponents. So, let us discuss the arrangements calmly.
“Next Thursday the Duke will send your husband on an urgent errand with some legal papers which must be hand delivered by a person of trust to his lawyers in Chancery Square in London. You will then wait to be collected at one o’clock in the Duke’s coach and taken to Pursvale Park. Should anybody ask you have been invited to attend a poetry reading that the Duchess is giving. There is nothing to fear, so remain calm. You will eventually return home safe and sound. In the meantime, say nothing about this to anybody else.”
“But, Diane, who else will be there? What is going to happen? I must have some idea of what to expect.”
Diane smiled as she prepared to take her leave. “An idea of what to expect? I can certainly provide that, my dear. Wait one moment.”
Diane went out to her gig and returned quickly, the shoulders of her dress damp with rain. She held out a small package to Madeline, a package neatly wrapped in expensive paper with a decorative bow.
“Remember, one o’clock of Thursday afternoon and be of a cheerful mind. This is going to be an experience you will long cherish. And here is your clothing for the poetry reading. Wear your travelling cloak for the journey in the coach and what’s in this box underneath your cloak. Nothing else but those items and your shoes. Not unless you want your last view of England to be over the stern of a foreign bound ship.”
The clergyman’s wife had stared with puzzlement as she took the package. “But it weighs nothing at all.”
“Then now you know what to expect, Madeline, and I hope you may blush so prettily on Thursday — ’twill look well!”
As soon as Diane’s cob had dragged the gig away down the muddy lane Madeline retired to the bedroom and opened the package. There was nothing in it but a long white robe made of pure silk. The luxurious feel of it in her hands made her gasp but not as much as the styling of it, for from the neckline down it was cut into strips, all the way around, and each strip no wider than a thumb’s breadth. The only other item in the box was a belt of the same material as the robe, clearly intended to be tied around the waist. Even more obviously, any woman wearing such a garment could never make a single movement without the risk of displaying herself in the lewdest manner.
Eventually, impelled by a fearful curiosity, Madeline took off every stitch of her clothing and slipped the gown down over her head and her arms, the silk caressing her skin with a sensuous smoothness which had her shuddering at the garment’s disgusting lasciviousness. It was as if she was dressing herself in actual bodily sin. Yet surely, no man could take any pleasure in the sight of a female who permitted herself to be displayed in such an immodest manner?
Never had she seen such an odd contrast between normality and singularity. The background reflections in the mirror were the same as always. The four poster bed, the small table by the window with her bible on top of it, the rather battered oaken wardrobe which was supposed to date back to the days of Queen Elizabeth. All this was as it had been ever since she and Edward had arrived her to make the cottage their home. And what had been a place of good works and Christian principles was now harboring a — a courtesan, a lady of the night, who looked as if she was bound for one of the utterly shameless entertainments that the Revolutionaries held in Paris, whispered about behind her friend’s fans as the most decadent spectacles to disgrace mankind since the orgies of Ancient Rome!
Madeline’s reflection passed its tongue over her lips as she saw that her left nipple was peeking out shamelessly between two of the silken strips. Instead of lifting her hand to re-arrange the gown Madeline tried to imagine what it could possibly feel like to be standing in front of the Duke’s son in such a situation. A young man, a stranger, able to gaze his fill on some part of her body sanctified forever by her marriage vows as Edward’s property alone. With an strange sense of detachment Madeline Swan-Smith noticed that the more she considered such a monstrous sin, the tighter and harder her exposed nipple became. Eventually her hand did rise, but instead of touching the robe it squeezed the tip of her bared breast. Madeline gasped and blushed when she realized what she was doing, forcing her mirror-image to cease its disgusting behavior immediately.
Thursday, as it must, arrived and was eventually followed in due course by Thursday afternoon, which in turn brought forth the promised coach. It pulled up outside the Vicarage, the footman dropping from the driver’s seat to open the door for the Parson’s lady. Madeline desperately clutched her travelling cloak around her body and hoped with all her heart that no word of the real reason for this summons to the mansion had reached the servants’ quarters.
“Come, Madeline, welcome aboard. Now our complement is complete.”
It was Diane’s voice which greeted her inside the darkened interior of the coach. She was not alone though. Two other women were already seated inside, eyeing Madeline with open curiosity, in which same manner she also stared at them. A whip cracked outside and the coach lumbered into motion.
“Madeline, I believe these are mutual acquaintances of ours. Edith and Yvonne.”
“Of course. How nice to meet you again.”
It was an absurd thing to say, as though they were all gathering on a normal social occasion, and Madeline saw amusement on the other faces in the coach. Yet it was hard to believe that the other women were each so composed as they appeared to be. The logic of their presence was certainly as clear as her own, for Diane must be coercing them with the same kind of threats about the Duke’s patronage as she had employed against Madeline.
Edith Mason was married to one of the teachers at the local school, a school paid for by the Duke, and for which he chose the staff. She was about Madeline’s age, the mother of a small daughter, the possessor of a good figure and a delightful fresh complexion. Though not exactly pretty her long nosed and much freckled face was one of those which always seemed ready to smile, as indeed Edith was smiling now.
“Would you like a drop of something to warm the cockles of your heart, Mrs Swan-Smith?”
The offerer was Yvonne Talbot, a tall, dark and deep bosomed young woman, probably the youngest in the coach, recently married to a builder in the town who was himself deeply involved with the Duke in plans for building new stables at the Park. Yvonne was holding out the small leather cup from a travelling flask to Madeline.
“Come, you’ll find it a great comfort.”
Not wishing to offend, Madeline took the cup and swallowed some of the liquid inside it, then began coughing as it left a burning path down her throat.
“Careful, my dear,” Diane warned. “I fear that you are unused to gin. But Yvonne is quite right, we all need a little help to relax.”
“And to be on our best behavior,” Yvonne cut in, making Edith giggle. Madeline began to believe that some appreciable amount of the gin in the flask must already have been consumed.
“But now that Madeline is here,” Edith continued, “Perhaps we should now know more of what you’ve planned for us, Diane.”
Diane bowed her head in compliance: “All I know is that we shall be taken to the music room, there to await Lord Horace’s pleasure.”
Edith giggled again at the implication in the words and Diane smiled: “I take it that you are all dressed in your gowns?”
They all nodded and Yvonne said: “I hope there’s a good fire in the room or else it may turn out to be a cold business.”
Diane reached out and patted her hand: “Be assured, my dear, you’ll find it warm enough, I warrant. Let me simply add that I think it would be unwise not obey instantly any instructions you are given. His Lordship is a pleasant enough young fellow but there will be a cane in the music room and Horace, as a prefect in his school, is well versed in using it if he feels he’s being disappointed in any regard. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, but how will it all begin?” Edith asked.
Diane shrugged her shoulders lightly: “Horace is the master of the hunt and we must follow whatever line he sets for us. I only act as a whipper in, so I ask you to do freely and willingly whatever you are told, otherwise I will have to play that role more realistically than I would wish to. As for you, Madeline, you’ve as much spirit in you as any of us, I know that, and I’m sure you can play your part full well.”
The conversation died away into a reflective silence as the coach turned underneath the twin rows of elm trees which shaded the driveway up to Pursvale House. Bright eyes, wary eyes, frightened eyes, excited eyes, they all shared a common view of the approaching mansion as the gin flask was passed around again. The coach stopped, the door was swung open, the step lowered and the footman stood stiffly with his hand extended to help each passenger descend to the smoothly raked gravel. If he noticed the way each of his alighting passengers held on so tightly to her cloak he showed no visible sign of it.
Madeline kept her eyes downcast and walked closely behind Diane, up the flight of steps and into the great hall, onto a polished wooden floor which suddenly felt unsteady beneath her feet. Please God, she wasn’t going to fall down drunk, not here on the Duke’s own doorstep! Edward would be furious if such a thing happened and she could never explain to him how it was she had taken gin to deaden a grosser sin.
Down endless passageways, a flunkey in a scarlet coat leading, Diane behind him, then Yvonne and Edith, and Madeline last. There were pictures on the walls, swords and shields, a suit of armor at the junction of two corridors. Yvonne pointed to the sharp angled steel glacis at the crutch of the steel shields, both Yvonne and Edith apparently sharing some joke about that part of the male anatomy which needed so much protection. Edith looked back and smiled at Madeline with the clear intention of also involving her in the jest. But Madeline could barely make a nervous and tight lipped response of feigned amusement.
Eventually they were shown through a door into a small room with a high ceiling decorated with rows of plaster of paris mermaids, sailing ships and dolphins. Even at this time of tension Madeline wondered that aristocrats with so much money should so often spent it with such bad taste. Yet the oak floor was as fine a piece of work as the murals were bad, laid by restoration craftsmen and polished with beeswax by succeeding generations of kneeling maids to a sheen which reflected back the light cast down from the overhanging chandeliers. All of them lit, burning away a small fortune in candles while the curtains remained drawn against the daylight outside. The only pieces of furniture in the room were near the fireplace. The red glow of the flames merged into the scarlet silk coverings of the four chaise lounges set close to it. Madeline stared at each of them as if they were the Devil’s footstools and yet somehow was still able to find it within herself to admire the style of the couches and the luxury of their coverings.
Diane pointed to one of the chaise lounges, set back further than the others, one side almost touching the wall. Propped up against the raised end of the couch was a cane with a handle, such a cane as school masters used to enforce discipline. Madeline’s stomach smoldered like a banked fire with tension and she wished she was anywhere else — anywhere else except on the deck of a ship leaving England.
“Now, ladies, I would have the three of you kneel down on this chaise lounge, all facing the wall. But first of all I should tell you that there are several chamber pots behind that screen. Perhaps this would be a good time to use one. Then pray kneel down on the chaise lounge as soon afterwards as maybe, for we must be ready on time. And straight backs, please.”
Having had great need of the pot and the relief of using it, Madeline afterwards knelt down on the couch between Edith and Yvonne, her knees sinking into the rose petal decorations on the chaise lounge’s cushions. As she settled her weight back over her heels she was acutely aware of how the strips of her gown hung and clung around her posterior, probably revealing as much of her flesh as they concealed. ‘Oh, Edward, how shall I bear this shame?’ she asked herself in despair.
“Hands down by your sides, ladies. Straight backs, say nothing, no laughing and remember that if you dare to look back without leave it’ll be the worse for you. You’re on parade now, like the sentries outside Buckingham Palace. Very well, ladies, it’s time to open the door for his Lordship.”
Nothing could be heard of Diane’s bare feet moving on the oak floorboards but there was a faint rustle from her dress material as she moved, the gossamer light strips brushing the air as lightly as falling leaves. Madeline was astonished to be able to hear them even though her heart was thumping away in her chest like the drum of a German band. Then there was silence — until they all heard a male voice and Diane answering it.
Madeline couldn’t hear exactly what words were exchanged. What she did hear with a shock of stunned astonishment was another boy’s voice overlapping the first one: then yet another one, talking and laughing. Unless her ears were totally deceiving her there were at least three boys entering the room. Madeline also heard Edith’s half choked whisper: “He’s bought some of his school friends with him. It’s going to be all hands to the pumps, girls.”
Edith giggled uncontrollably for a second or so before succeeding in quenching her laughter.
“I think there’s another one as well,” Yvonne whispered back. “Listen!”
Madeline had been distracted by the other wives’ surreptitious exchange, yet as she concentrated on the sounds of the approaching conversation she came to believe that Yvonne was correct. Diane’s contribution to the mingled voices was clear, the intertwined male voices difficult to distinguish between, but certainly three males and perhaps four of them approaching the couch. Madeline imagined what their eyes must be seeing as they came closer to the semi-naked women kneeling in servile patience for their masters’ arrival.
“Oh, God!” the clergyman’s wife whispered in her dry throat, praying desperately for the strength to get through this completely unexpected and terrifying addition to her coming ordeal.
Bad enough to be forced to offer up her honor and marital virtue to Lord Horace; it had never once occurred to her that other boys might also be present to watch whatever obscene humiliations were to be practiced on her. Madeline knew she was about to become the stuff of which martyrs were made from: what she couldn’t understand was how it was possible for Edith to be giggling again and almost half choking herself in a desperate effort to stifle the sounds. How could it be that a woman facing such a terrible fate would want to laugh? Madeline had no explanation for such behavior except perhaps the gin that Edith had drunk. Yet she was sure that she could have drained the flask on her own and still felt no desire to laugh.
Madeline glanced to her right side, towards Yvonne, hoping to see an example of shared Christian fortitude as a support for her own weakness. Yvonne had her eyes closed, her head thrown back, and a look of anticipation on her face something like that of a child waiting to open the Christmas presents on Boxing day. Far from appearing like a Christian waiting for the lions to be let loose into the Coliseum, Yvonne seemed much more nearly to resemble a lioness herself, a lioness crouched and tensed to spring.
“No need to pray, Madeline,” Edith whispered. “There’s plenty for everybody.” Incredibly, she still sounded as if she was struggling against an inclination to giggle.
Madeline had no idea of what Edith could possibly find amusing in their situation and wondered if the girl had already been driven mad by their circumstances. Perhaps it was more merciful if she had been. Behind them the voices had ceased, to be replaced by the pad of heavier feet on the floor until Diane spoke in a bold voice, as bold as if this was her home and she was the Duchess herself.
“Lord Horace, gentlemen, these are the ladies of the estate who have been delighted to accept your offer of hospitality.”
“For which I thank them.” The voice was young, drawling, a mixture of confidence and conceit. “Ladies, indulge our whims by staying in your present positions a while longer. Diane, pray tell me whom we have here?”
Diane answered briskly: “On the left is Edith. Married for two and a half years and a mother of one child. A well broken in young filly who should give a good gallop for any rider once she’s been properly warmed up. I think you should all know that Edith took very little persuading to join us today. I suspect the pleasures of the marriage bed are beginning to bore her somewhat. If any of you young gentlemen wish to form consortiums to advance Edith’s education in shared pleasures, I’m sure she’ll prove an attentive pupil for your advanced classes.”
A ripple of laughter came from behind the chaise lounge.
“On the right, allow me to introduce Yvonne. Married for only six months and, I’m sure, has known no man except her lawfully wedded husband. It took me some time to convince her that it was in his best interests that she should be with us today. One look at her shape is enough to tell any of you that the effort to get her here was well worth it. I invite you all to peruse those well shaped crescents underneath the strips of her gown. Is there one of you who wouldn’t delight in becoming the man in that moon?”
That brought out another chorus of male laughter and sounds of approval.
“The thing about Yvonne is that she needs to have her modesty shorn from her by some lucky lads. But not until the ladies have had their own instruments of pleasure well tuned up. No doubt you will oblige them in doing so.”
To Madeline the noise from the pack of boys marked the advancing edge of an onrushing tide of evil. She felt her limbs freeze in terror as they hooted with laughter at each of Diane’s jocular comments. The woman seemed determined to let loose upon her victims every unbridled lust that the group of hotblooded youths could devise. And if Diane had known in advance about Horace’s friends being present why had she not told Madeline? The answer was obvious: if Madeline had known in advance that such an ungodly orgy was being planned, nothing, no argument or pressure of any kind, would have induced her to leave the Vicarage and come here. It was beyond anything in her experience to conceive of how a church going woman like Diane could now be revealing a soul as filthy and twisted as Messalina’s.
“Finally, gentleman, and Lord Horace in particular, we have the delightful Madeline in the middle. I have to confess that the half of this matter was not revealed to Madeline when I made the arrangements for her to come here. She thought she was going to have to oblige his Lordship only — she’s now listening and learning that there’s going to be considerably more work than that involved. As you can see the prospect is causing her to blush somewhat — or perhaps it’s the thought of how you’re all looking so closely at that plump little bottom of hers. What she doesn’t know yet is how soon she’ll be waggling it around in the air like a feeding duck for all of you to admire.”
This time the laughter was unendurable: Madeline gritted her teeth and tried to pretend she was a million miles away.
“As you can also see she’s built for comfort, not speed, with lots of curves positively crying out to be caressed. Which is what they badly need, for Madeline is the wife of the local Vicar, a clergyman who’s far more clergy than man, if I’m any judge. But, no matter, I warned her that she had to do good works either here or abroad and between us I’m sure we can teach her much today. At least she’s already had plenty of practice in kneeling down and offering up thanks for a bountiful harvest.”
Madeline couldn’t understand what was humorous about that remark, although the youths clearly thought it to be so. Everything which was happening or being talked about was so strange, so inexplicable, that she might as well be in a foreign country. Which was only be expected; the life led by a Lord and his aristocratic friends was as far above Madeline’s level of society as hers was from a farm worker’s wife. Even so, she still hated being used a butt for Diane’s sharp humor and the boys’ laughter.
“Thank you for introducing us to your friends, Diane,” the same languid voice said. That must be Lord Horace himself. “Can I also say that you look as attractive as ever, you minx. Gentleman, as a mark of approval for her efforts, why don’t you gather around Mrs Masefield and give her a show of hands?”
The kneeling girls all heard Diane’s voice become a parody of outraged modesty: “No, no! Unhand me, sir! Would you treat a poor defenseless female so, you villains! Oh, who did that? You rogues!”
Madeline was consumed with curiosity about what was happening behind her, yet the memory of the waiting cane at the end of the couch restrained her from turning her head. There was movement, she could sense that, and excitement as well, as tangible as the electrical flux in the air before summer lightning. Whatever was happening to Diane, Madeline was sure it was only the first flurry of a gathering storm of unbridled lust.
“I think that’s enough for now, gentlemen.” The same voice they’d already heard spoke again. Lord Horace was giving fresh orders. “Time to make the acquaintance of the other gals, I think.”
Still desperate to seek some shred of reassurance, Madeline looked to her left again, towards Edith. The other woman had turned her eyes in Madeline’s direction in the same instant: both of the wives shared a fleeting moment of shared consciousness. As before, Madeline expected to see in Edith the same fear and confusion as was welling up inside her own mind, and, as before, she failed. Edith’s eyes were alight with excitement, her mouth was curved in a broad smile, and between the scarlet lips her breath blew out in gusts as if driven from a blacksmith’s bellows.
How could this be? Didn’t Edith share Madeline’s shock at Diane’s betrayal of them? Instead of having to endure the foul attentions of a single boy the three of them had been delivered into servitude like the ancient Israelites, not only to serve Pharaoh but his nation too. Who knew what wickedness might be inflicted upon helpless females by these arrogant sprigs of the nobility? How could Edith seem to be pleased at the grim prospects closing in on them so relentlessly? The confused thoughts inside Madeline’s head spun around wildly, a garishly colored kaleidoscope of scarcely imagined images she could not believe were possible.
“Gentleman, stroke your mounts.”
What?
Yvonne gasped and moved, her arm brushing against Madeline’s. What was happening to her? The question was answered as a hand fell on the thin strips of Madeline’s own dress, caressing without shame that very part of her anatomy which Madeline had already been so mortified to have displayed to the boys without a decent covering. She began to tremble almost uncontrollably as another hand began the same work as the first. Each of them, as if by agreement, had claimed one half of her posterior as its own territory to explore without let or hindrance.
Madeline found herself whimpering with shock and disbelief. Somehow, she found herself holding hands with Yvonne and Edith. It was as though they were standing on the edge of a cliff and needed to share their emotions by touching each other before they were tumbled into the abyss together.
The hands were now re-arranging Madeline’s robe, separating out the silken strips to drape around the outside of her legs, so that her bottom was completely exposed to the vulgar eyes of the watching boys. She felt her own eyes widen as fingertips lightly ran along the bared contours, down, down along the backs of her thighs and then up again.
Madeline wondered wildly what the boy who was taking such liberties with her looked like. And what must be the expression on Diane’s face as she watched these loathsome iniquities being practiced on her friends, the friends she had betrayed? It was as if they had all been flown by magic carpet across the Bosphorous, to a Sultan’s Palace beyond the reach of Christian civilization, a place where respectable English women could be treated as if they were mere playthings delivered up from the harem for the sole purpose of pleasuring men. Perhaps that was the only way to cope with this insane situation, to think of it as happening in some far off time and place.
“My God!”
If the caresses already lavished on her quivering body had been grossly impudent, yet they were as nothing compared to where the intruding fingers were now moving, creeping between her opened legs and over the fabric of the chaise lounge cushion. A sharp nail traced the hand’s passage around her thigh until she knew that the upturned finger tips were almost brushing that place where she was most a woman and a wife. Then they boldly struck up to complete their hideous trespass to the full. Like conquistadors discovering a secret valley the fingers entered it and began searching for hidden treasures, a slow and careful but absolutely relentless search.
Madeline knew the blood was rushing to her face; she also felt the pressure she was exerting on Edith and Yvonne’s hands being returned. “My Lord, my Lord,” Edith gabbled and each of the women knew they were all sharing the same experience, the experience of having their most private places fondled like kitten’s ears. Madeline wondered wildly if the boy doing this to her was gently rubbing her swelling bud by chance or design — did he really know why she was gasping so loudly?
Oh God, she was becoming a wanton Jezebel at the touch of a male she hadn’t even set eyes on yet, some malevolent school boy who was tightening up her body like a violin string as he thoroughly molested her maidenhood.
“All change, please, gentlemen.” Diana’s voice was tinged with humor, as if she was smiling. “One place to the left, I think.”
The hand underneath Madeline withdrew. There was movement behind the chaise lounge. She didn’t want to believe it was happening but she was certain that the boy who’d been touching her was now behind Yvonne, ready to do to her what he’d been doing to Madeline. Which also meant that the boy who had been drawing grunts and pants from Edith was now about to touch her. It was true, the three of them were being treated as nothing but slave girls, slave girls to be openly examined and handled like animals in market pens.
Madeline shifted her eyes to the left and right again. Again she noticed the excitement evident in Edith and Yvonne’s faces. She also saw that both of Yvonne’s large bosoms had somehow slipped through the restraints of her gown so they could be clearly seen, including her nipples. Brown, tight, jutting nipples which betrayed her heightened feelings just as much as the way she swayed her hips before even being touched again. Madeline would have thought it a shameful display if only she hadn’t discovered that both of her own points had also poked free from the surrounding ribbons. Out into the open, on display and betraying her bodily excitement to anyone in the room who cared to look over her shoulders
“Ah!” Edith gave a gasp, a giggle, and a wriggle of her hips.
“Oh! Yvonne’s hand grasped Madeline’s even harder as she rose up on her knees and then sank slowly down, the tip of her tongue running over her lips.
Another set of busy fingers crept in underneath Madeline, causing her to make the same animalistic sounds in unison with her companions in this enforced carnal sin.
Enforced? Madeline abruptly realized that nobody was forcing her to spread her knees further apart, nobody was demanding that she rub herself against the fingers penetrating her. And, certainly, nobody could have commanded her to have a fire burning fiercely inside her in a place where before there had only ever been warm ashes. These were all her own sins, these were her own faults, that she was finding the shameless lusts of the flesh far more interesting than the good book had ever intimated. Words from one of Edward’s favorite sermons came rushing into her mind written in letters of fire: “I have come to the brink of utter ruin in the midst of the whole assembly.’
For the very first time in her life Madelaine Swan-Smith had cause to wonder if she was perhaps a shameless harlot at heart. How else could she be sighing in satisfaction because of the vulgar attentions of some disgusting boys? Though if it were gross impropriety to behave so, then Edith and Yvonne were just as guilty of it as Madeline was. All three of them were whining in excitement, all three of them were moving their bodies as if astride slowly cantering horses. Then Edith let go of Madeline’s hand and leaned forward until the upper part of her body was resting on her forearms and her bottom was held up high for the boys in open submission.
“Yes, come on, fuck me.”
Madeline wondered what Edith was asking for. She herself had sometimes heard that word coming out of the tap room of the inn on a summer’s night when the windows were open as she walked past: ‘fuck’. Madeline had assumed it was another of those oaths impossible to use in polite society, another word like ‘bloody’. But Edith seemed to be using the word in a different way. Madeline asked herself in astonishment if it could mean that Edith was actually inviting one of the boys to commit the worst sin of all with her.
“Yes, yes!”
Yvonne was calling out as well, another hunted animal at bay on her hands and knees and surrendering herself to the pack’s mercy.
“Well now,” a boy’s upper class tones came from directly behind Madeline. “That only leaves the tart from the Vicarage. Let’s see if we can get her ready for mounting.”
Madeline half turned her head in an instinctive reaction towards the voice, then stopped at a warning cry from Diane and looked towards the wall again. She wished the oak panels were polished enough for her to see the face of the one who had just spoken, the one who was playing the devil’s own tricks
with her womanly parts. Unable to contain her desires any longer, Madeline sprawled forward in the same position of prostrate capitulation as Edith and Yvonne, displaying herself naked and aroused like a bitch in heat, with the boys’ laughter sounding in her ears as she surrendered her last shred of decency.
Worse yet, Diana was also laughing at the sight of the Vicar’s lady sprawled out in the lewdest possible display for everybody in the room to see. Madeline wondered how she could ever live a normal life again, ever attend another village church service without her guilty secret being obvious to all who saw her. To stand with Diane, sharing a hymnbook with her in the pew . . . no, it was impossible, God would strike them down at the Church steps as wayward wives full of sin.
“Sweet Jesus!”
Something warm and wet pressed against the damp curls of hair she was showing to all. It lapped around her cleft, found her bud and slid against it. For a second Madeline really thought some kind of a fierce animal was licking her — and then she felt the hands gripping the front of each of her thighs and realized that it was a boy’s tongue she was feeling. It was astonishing: did men do that to women? Lapping at their openings like a cat at a saucer of milk? Surely not, not down there? Did men enjoy that? Did women enjoy it?
Well, yes, women did. At least Madeline enjoyed it, she was quickly becoming convinced of that. How strange this all was. If it was Edward doing this to her would it be counted as a sin? It certainly felt very, very sinful.
The boy behind her held her open, held her private parts open like an oyster shell and buried his face between her thighs as he tasted her. Madeline squeaked like a mouse trapped underneath a cat’s paw. Neither her mind nor her body was under her control anymore and suddenly the madness she’d been expecting was upon her. It came in a kind of fit she’d never known before, like a spoonful of gunpowder exploding inside her body. The shock made her cry out and swoon into partial unconsciousness, sprawled out on top of the chaise lounge in the weak limbed state of a discarded rag doll. Vaguely, far away it seemed, she could hear the boys mirth as she waited to die.
But she wasn’t allowed to. Instead, she was lifted up by the arms and found herself being led to another of the couches. Strands of her hair had come loose, falling across her face. She pulled her arm away from the light grip restraining it and brushed the strands away. Immediately the hand which had been on her arm settled around her exposed left nipple.
Madeline gasped, and then again as another guiding hand tugged at her right breast. She stared down at the hands and realized she was being held by a boy on her right and another on her left. The one on the right was about her height, with broad shoulders and an equally broad grin on a lightly freckled face under a thatch of ginger hair. The skin on his body from the neck up was tanned, and from the neck down completely white. Completely white all the way down to his feet, with not a stitch of clothing to cover it anywhere. Incredibly, he didn’t seem at all concerned about his naked state. Not even that she could see his Adam’s spear sticking stiffy out of the patch of ginger hair in open and unashamed arousal.
“You’ve got a fine pair of udders on you, Madeline,” the boy said. “The clergymen in these parts must live off the fat of the land, hey, Algy.”
The boy on the other side of Madeline merely grunted and showed his assent by gripping her more tightly yet and twisting the captive flesh as if it were a handful of wet wool he was trying to squeeze dry. Madeline gasped with dismay and pain at the ruthless strength of the boy’s seizure of her body, her frightened eyes fastened onto his face. A face which could have been lifted from a Roman coin, handsome with strength enough to demand obedience: flat sided cheeks, a strong jawline, sensual lips, fair hair cut en brosse. But no minted impression could have conveyed the menace in eyes that were as blank of emotion as polished steel and as sharp as a sword’s edge. When he spoke it was in the same tone he might have used to ask for a cucumber sandwich across a dining table.
“I’m going to make a special point of fucking you, Madeline from the Vicarage. You understand me, you little trollop?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
It seemed completely incongruous to address a boy several years her junior as in such a manner but he was undeniably in a position to demand Madeline’s complete respect. But did fucking mean what she thought it did? Was this boy expecting to deal with her as if he were her husband?
She gurgled deep in her throat as he twisted her even more tightly. In her mind she was shocked by the casual way he was helping himself to her body without even displaying the excuse of passion. Of course the ginger haired boy was doing the same thing to her as well but at least he was smiling and he wasn’t deliberately hurting her as this other one was.
Algy considered her words and then relaxed his grip a little, but tugged at the softness of her captured bosom to bring Madeline a step closer to him. For some reason he was poking his finger into the side of her thigh. Only it seemed to be a very big finger. Madeline looked down and saw that it wasn’t a finger at all which was brushing against her. It was Algy’s phallus, displaying itself as flagrantly as Ginger’s member, but even more puffed up with male pride.
Madeline stared down wide-eyed at both of them, trying to understand how she could be standing between two naked boys, both of them fondling her exposed breasts and both of them rubbing against her like rutting animals. Surely she should have swooned away into a dead faint at finding herself in such a situation. Yet she was not only not fainting, but every nerve in her body was quivering in anticipation. The tips of her bosoms were as hard as tiny crab apples against the hands which stroked her, and she knew why. It was because she knew absolutely and totally that very soon she was indeed going to be forced down onto one of the couches for the boys have their way with her.
Algy reached down and took hold of Madeline’s hand as if they were sweethearts on the village green. Except that instead of merely holding her hand Algy pressed her fingers down and around his manhood. To her it felt alive, like a small puppy, warm and trembling with a life of its own. Madeline wondered what she was supposed to do next. Whatever it was, it seemed that Ginger wanted the same thing as well, for he took her other hand and put it on his own full blooded appendage.
Still puzzled, Madeline gave the organs a gentle squeeze. Somehow it seemed to her that both of them were bigger than her husband’s. Of course she couldn’t be sure because Edward had never exposed himself to her view in this way, nor would he have dreamt of allowing her to touch him in this totally unnatural manner. But these aristocratic bred youths seemed to have no shame at all, nor even any concept of it. Instead of being disgusted they seemed to be actively enjoying Madeline’s ministrations on the most intimate parts of their bodies.
Even odder, both of them put their hands on top of hers and guided them so that her palms were rubbing back and forth along their members. They each seemed to want exactly the same movements from her hands and both apparently gained much pleasure from the stroking she was giving them. It occurred to Madeline that although Algy and Ginger were pawing her breasts she, in turn, was literally holding both of the boys in the palms of her hands. Stranger and stranger, but before Madeline could think any further about what was happening there was a high pitched wail of feminine passion to distract her.
Edith and Yvonne were still on their knees on the chaise lounges, though both were now sprawled forward in the attitude of Muslims at prayer. Yet these were brazen travesties of any kind of religious activity. The strips of each woman’s dress had been drawn aside to fully reveal her smooth buttocks, and to allow unimpeded access to the probing fingers between each pair of opened thighs.
Knowing fingers, skilful fingers, with the boys leaning forward over each female showing an expression of smiling deliberation as if they were tickling trout from a riverbank, nodding and adjusting their touch to every cry from their victims, probing into their womanly parts until Edith and Yvonne were mewing and twitching their bottoms like cows trying to brush away clouds of May flies. Then Yvonne gave a great shudder and dropped her head on the couch; the dark haired boy who’d been manipulating her laughed and raised a set of glistening fingers as if they were trophies of the chase.
Diane clapped her hands, moved to his side, took his hand and put his fingers into her mouth, apparently sucking Yvonne’s essence from them. The boy looked over Diana’s shoulder at Madeline. His face was red and round like a evil omened harvest moon. It was also quite obvious by his coarse and ugly features that he was the Duke of Parsvale’s son and heir. Therefore it was Lord Horace who was leering at Madeline over Diane’s shoulder as Diana licked his fingers clean. Until she saw the interest expressed on Lord Horace’s face and half turned her head to see the scene of Madeline’s humiliation. Then Diane spoke to Horace.
“Come, sir, is it not time for a little game of chance to open the first round of the tournament?”
“Aye, so it is,” Horace said thickly. “Come on, lads, step up to the mark.” He pointed to one of the couches. “Algy, Wendell, leave her be for the moment and take your chances on who gets their pricks tasted first.”
Madeline was surprised to find herself suddenly unhanded as both of the boys abandoned her thoroughly trespassed upon body to take positions on either side of the couch. They grinned amiably at each other as Madeline wondered what was afoot. Her cheeks scarlet in shame and her tightened bosoms still exposed, she tried not to stare at those parts of the boys which showed their rampant lust. Yet her eyes refused her directions; not only did they continue to look at what she should not be seeing, they seemed fastened on the sight of the swollen phallus rearing up out of Algy’s loins to a length she never thought possible. Indeed, she could not help but glance at those other bared masculine parts and compare them to his, confirming he was definitely a fuller figure of a man than the others.
Diane’s voice broke in on thoughts in Madeline’s mind which certainly needed curtailing
“Stand by, lads. Now, show!”
Algy threw out his hand as did the ginger topped boy, who must be the Wendell that Horace had spoken to. Algy’s fingers were flat, Wendell’s bunched in a fist. Wendell shook his head in disappointment. It was clear they were playing the child’s game of paper, scissors and stone, and that Algy had won by wrapping Wendell’s stone.
“Now you and I, Duncan.”
Lord Horace had the beginnings of his father’s paunch around his belly. He stepped up heavily to the couch to take Algy’s place. Duncan was even fatter, whey faced and white bodied, a trace of dark hair on his chest and a big bush of it around his bodily equipment. There were veins on it appendage so thick that they seemed likely to burst at any moment, which would not have displeased Madeline, for Duncan was a match for Horace in ugliness of face with a fine crop of pimples thrown in for worst measure. Both boys held their hands behind their backs and Madeline saw that Duncan had his fingers parted to make scissors.
“Show,” Diana called and both boys displayed scissors.
“Again.”
This time Horace retained scissors and Duncan had a fist. His unpleasant face wreathed in a smile at blunting Horace’s scissors and winning the game.
“La, so now tis Algy and Duncan to decide first play,” Diana declared. Both of the boys quickly stood to the couch.
“Show!”
Duncan had chosen stone again but Algy’s flattened hand denoted paper, which wrapped stone and won him the round.
“So, Algy goes first,” Diana adjudicated. “Now the girls play with him. Come on, Edith, toe the line and show off your stakes.”
Edith was helped up off the couch, apparently trembling with unspent energy after being herself so thoroughly fondled. She went promptly enough to the couch and fluttered her eyelids at Algy as she hid one hand behind her back.
“Show!”
Algy had stone, Edith had scissors. It seemed to be a game she had no disappointment in losing.
“You win first service from her, Algy,” Diane said. “Do you claim a formal submission?”
“Certainly,” Algy answered.
“Edith, kneel on the couch and acknowledge your master,” Diana ordered.
Edith quickly settled herself on the couch and Algy moved directly in front of her. Edith put her hand on his phallus and then put her lips to it.
At first she seemed to be kissing the head of it. Then Edith opened her mouth and boldly sucked on the organ as if it were a length of toffee.
Madeline observed that Algy seemed gratified by Edith’s action, and also that the other boys were plainly captivated by the sight. Yvonne caught Madeline’s eye and gave a half smile with a fatalistic shrug of her shoulders, as if to show this sort of thing was to be expected from boys. A rough natured prank to be tolerated as long as needful. Madeline wondered if her own confusion was discernable. Did males like putting their aroused rods into girls’ mouths? Did it mean that all them were going to be expected to do the same thing?
Yvonne seemed to sense Madeline’s puzzlement. As the males remained firmly attentive to the activity on the chaise lounge Yvonne rolled her eyes and looked upwards as if praying — but then she nodded towards Edith, as if conveying some secret message. Madeline looked in the same direction, at Edith with her head thrown, jaws agape to admit a surprising length of Algy’s manhood between them, her breath snorting through her flared nostrils like a blown horse. Yet even so her eyes were as Yvonne’s had been, cast up and fastened on Algy’s features with complete attention. She seemed to be playing the role of a dog — a bitch — desperately hoping for a pat or a word of praise from her master as she performed her tricks for him. Her master indeed: presumably this was a part of the ritual of the formal submission that Diane had spoken of.
Madeline felt a prickle of revulsion, a strong urge to resist such humiliation. Until she considered the sheer bodily strength of Horace’s gang, and also the brooding presence of the cane. It was still on the couch, still within reach, and the slightest sign of resistance would likely bring it into use against the reluctant female concerned. Diane had warned them about that and from what Madeline could judge of the situation, it was a warning to heed.
Diane clapped her hands together: “Well done, Edith. Now move aside and let Yvonne seek her fortune.”
Some of the boys sniggered as Yvonne walked to the side of the elegant piece of furniture, each of them still as careless of their undressed state as a pack of monkeys. All their eyes were fastened upon the unfettered swaying of the woman’s trembling bosoms as she faced the triumphant Algy. Edith had risen from the couch and was standing beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder, her own interest also directed at Yvonne.
“Ready?” Diane called. “Then — show!”
Algy’s displayed hand displayed parted fingers, scissors, Yvonne’s fingers were clenched into stone. The boy’s face twitched in a flash of annoyance as his companions showed their evident pleasure at perceiving Yvonne to be a still unclaimed piece on the board. What Algy had lost one of them might yet win as a treat for himself.
“Step aside, Yvonne. Tis another’s turn now.”
Diane’s face turned towards Madeline. The older woman’s face was of a more heightened color than usual, her voice more pronounced, her attention focused on the events in the music room as avidly as a hawk preparing to swoop. She seemed to be even more excited and exultant at what was happening than any of the boys. Madeline suddenly realized that she didn’t know Diane very well — perhaps she didn’t know her at all.
Truth to tell, Madeline wasn’t even sure she knew herself. Could this really be Madeline Swan-Smith stepping forward half naked, her own body as exposed as Yvonne’s and swaying in exactly the same way before the gleeful eyes of the boys? Her face were burning, yet it was odd that the only boy she was really aware of was Algy. For his eyes were not intent on her bosom but staring into hers, his blue pupils seemingly striking sparks from her brown ones as if flint was hitting against steel. Madeline felt her legs trembling against the wispy lengths of silk of her robe as Algy made an ostentatious display of putting his hand behind him.
“Come, Madeline, surely you know how to play the game by now,” Diane urged her. “Hand behind your back, quick’s the word and smart’s the action.”
Madeline did as she was bid, concealing her right hand behind her back.
“Have you made your choice?” Diane asked of her. Madeline gulped, hastily spreading out two fingers to make scissors.
“Wait,” Algy said. “Edith, give my beard splitter a rub for good luck.”
Edith laughed and quickly obliged by wrapping her fingers around his upthrust member and flicking her wrist to and fro with the expertise of a carpenter whittling wood. The round headed tip of Algy’s column seemed to be aimed at Madeline like an enemy gun. A sudden memory came into her head of a woodcut illustration she had once seen, of a mouse crouched in front of a cat, too frightened to even try to run away, or perhaps too wise to try to fight against an unavoidable fate. As unavoidable as her own fate seemed to be.
“Make a wish, Madeline,” Edith said and a couple of the boys sniggered.
“Enough,” Algy ordered. “Ready, Diane.”
Edith removed her hand, Diane nodded, looked carefully at both sides of the chaise lounge, and then her voice cracked like a coachman’s whip: “Show!”
Madeline’s hand shot out, two fingers opened. His lips stretched out in a triumphant grin as he held up his clenched fist. Stone breaks scissors, game and prize to him.
“You serve me first, Madeline, now.”
Hisses of disappointment came from his friends, as if a nest of serpents were seeing their prey escape them. Then the boys moved forward, around the couch, each jostling for the best view of what was to happen next.
“Do you claim formal submission?” Diane asked, the question directed at Algy but her gaze fixed on Madeline.
“I do.”
He moved towards the chaise lounge until his legs were brushing the side. The only gap left around the piece of furniture was the one carefully left by the boys for Madeline.
“On the couch, Madeline. On the couch and greet your master.”
Diane’s tone was that of lady to servant girl, yet imbued with a sense of excitement seemingly akin to that displayed by the schoolboys themselves. Madeline didn’t understand that at all. Yet, to her own surprise, she found she was able to take the half step which put her against the couch, so that only the width of the seat was left between herself and Algy. She dared exchange glances with him no longer, but kept her eyes on his shoulders and arms. Even so, the sight of the taut bulges in his well muscled limbs set her heart thumping inside her body like a hare in March.
“Kneel, Madeline.”
To kneel down in a position of worship in front of the very emblem of fornication made flesh? Yet there was nothing else she could do, nothing that any frail woman could do under such compulsion. This sinful behavior was not of her making and heaven would surely punish those who paid no heed to its plain warnings: ‘Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched? So is he who sleeps with another man’s wife; no one who touches her will go unpunished.’
Yet she had to admit that the ungodly boys around her seemed not a whit worried by any prospect of divine revenge as she placed one knee and then the other on the silky smooth fabric of the chaise lounge. She felt their eyes upon her wantonly displayed body and the slightest of creaks from the wooden joints of the couch as her weight fell upon them. Now, just in front of her mouth, was the strangely shaped head of Algy’s rod, that instrument of womanly downfall which she was now required to serve in any way demanded of her.
“Open wide, Mrs Swan-Smith, and preach us a sermon. I’m sure your husband would oblige us with one if he were only here to see this.”
The words were Lord Horace’s, the laughter came from his fellow pupils. The pack of males were looking down on her as if they were dark angels rejoicing in the imminent fall of yet another pure soul into the depths of degradation. Madeline felt her face flaming in shame as she parted her lips. Algy’s right hand reached out, past her, gripped the nape of her neck, urgent fingers entwined themselves into her hair. Then his palm pressed against the back of her head, pressed with a strength and assurance there was no denying, no point in even making a futile struggle against.
Perhaps that was what Algy wanted, what the boys wanted, to see her make one last desperate attempt to escape. It might even be what Diane wanted. At least Madeline could deny them that satisfaction, if no other. She obeyed Algy’s guiding hand, parted her lips, bent forward and accepted the helm of his sex between them.
The first impression was of the smoothness, of saltiness, of heat, of a rubbing sensation against the roof of her mouth, of the pulse within the phallus she could feel through the softness of her own mouth. As if tasting a new dish she tentatively rubbed the top of her tongue against the undercurve of the boy’s arousal. The response was immediate and unnerving. The serpent’s head nestling in the back of her mouth slithered forward as Algy’s hand forced her head closer yet to his body, until her nose was almost pressed into the patch of coarse blonde hair at the bottom of his stomach. From it protruded that instrument which it was required of her to accommodate, accommodation she was finding it increasingly difficult to provide without feeling completely choked.
Madeline tried to recall how Edith had dealt with the same situation, presumably as a result of previous experience. Like Edith, Madeline closed her lips entirely around Algy’s phallus, whilst yet taking care not to nip it with her teeth. Next she drew deep on the member, sucking it until she could feel her cheeks dimpling as Edith’s had, and the breath snorting through her nostrils. Then she began, as far as she was able, to slide her mouth up and down the phallus. Algy immediately responded by removing his hand and letting her lips retreat to his tip and then slip back down the length of his organ like a ring sliding onto a finger. The final part indeed of a black mockery of a marriage ceremony, the open display of a woman showing her burning eagerness to be taken by a male. Madeline suddenly had the odd thought that all the white gowns and formal ceremony of a Christian marriage perhaps meant no more than that either.
“Hey, the vicar’s floozy is a genuine cocksmoker!”
“Look at that plump little prick jockey taking the jumps.”
“Playing a good tune on your pink piccolo, is she, Algy? I’ll make her yodel with mine, you wait and see.”
Madeline suddenly remembered what else she had seen Edith do, and also copied the action. Sometimes she paused in her work, her head tilted back with the tip of Algy’s manhood nestled between her opened lips. With upturned eyes stared at his face as Edith had, in the same pose of doglike adoration and readiness to obey any order given to her.
“Enough”, Horace’s voice boomed out. “I’m as randy as hell from watching that Vicar’s piece of cunt perform. Move aside and let me try my luck against this dark bitch’s.”
Algy laughed and tugged at Madeline’s hair, bringing her to her feet and moving her backwards as Horace pushed Yvonne forward and then took position opposite her across the couch.
“Hands behind your backs,” Diane ordered. “Now, show!”
Horace laughed as his scissors came out against Yvonne’s flattened hand. “Down on your knees, wench.”
Yvonne sank down on the couch. Diane nodded to Edith and then at Duncan. Edith went to the boy and knelt down at his feet. Diane walked over to Wendell and did as Edith had done. Eager fingers reached down and clutched at long hair as each boy urged on the woman pleasuring him. Algy’s arms came around Madeline from behind and squeezed her breasts so fiercely she felt her tight nipples were going to pop like chestnuts in a fire. Algy moved her forward towards the chaise lounge.
“Down, bitch.”
Madeline knelt next to Yvonne. Algy spoke over her head: “Here, Horace, your turn for some Christian charity.”
“By God, and so it is.”
Horace stepped back from Yvonne, withdrawing his saliva coated length from Yvonne, then sidewards, like a dance partner in a polka. One of his hands grabbed at the top of Madeline’s head, twisted up strands of hair between his fingers and forced her to lift up her head as he moved closer. Unwillingly but without hesitation Madeline parted her lips as she had done for Algy and used her fingertips to guide his hard flesh into her mouth. But there was no pause here, no chance to settle herself into the rhythm of the other body before Horace thrust his battering ram so deeply down her throat that pain and want of air forced tears to spring to her eyes.
“A little more restraint, my lord,” Algy suggested as he took advantage of Yvonne’s opened lips. “The lady is still more used to singing than swallowing man mutton. Give her a little space and a little time and she’ll do tricks that will have her blushing in church on Sunday.”
“She’ll blush right enough. To hell with it, Algy, I want my clergyman cuckolded right now, to the count of four and without stopping. Who’ll help me in fucking his wife like a regimental whore on pay night.”
The other two boys whooped out in approval, as if they were followers at a hunt seeing a fox caught in the jaws of the hounds. “Set her up, Horace, set her up.”
Horace removed himself from her mouth and lifted Madeline up. There seemed to be boys all around the chaise lounge, all knowing what needed to be done. Yvonne was brought to the unbacked end, and then pushed face down on top it, her upper thighs splayed out and digging into each corner of the couch’s end. Her hands were held flat on the polished floorboards, her head resting on one cheek, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Relax, my girl,” Diane said. “His Lordship has need of a cushion and you’ll serve well enough with Madeline on top of you.”
“What . . . ?”
Madeline’s arms were seized, then her legs as she was pushed over backwards, then thrust down on top of Yvonne’s body, hearing the girl below her gasp as the weight fell on her, spine pressing against spine. Horace and Algy knelt down, still holding one of her arms each and hooked them through Yvonne’s, in a kind of crucifixion pose. Duncan and Wendell had her hands on her calves now, using their grip to lift her feet high up and wide apart. Beyond them stood Edith and Diane, watching with close interest at these preparations. Duncan and Wendell moved closer, forcing Madeline’s legs back until they trapped against their chests. Their hands disappeared out of sight, fingers plunging into Madeline and Yvonne’s private places. Both captive girls called out and jerked against each other. Then the boys moved aside, but still holding onto Madeline’s ankles to keep her pinoned and exposed. As they moved, they revealed Horace’s leering face and the raised cane in his hand.
“Please, no, my Lord!”
Madeline’s cry for mercy was instantly followed by a shriek as the cane lashed across her bared bottom, and then by another from underneath her as Yvonne was given a cut. Another slash at Madeline soft curves and she begged again for mercy, to no avail. Horace swept the cane down again and again, sometimes aiming several times at Madeline and then applying himself vigorously to Yvonne for a series of cuts. As he did so the writhing body underneath Madeline’s would set her breasts quivering and shaking, and Algy leaned forward to twist their points between his fingers.
Then Horace hung the cane from one of Madeline’s ankles to free both his hands and reached down. Each set of fingers probed much deeper than either Madeline or Yvonne could have supposed possible. Each girl heard the other call out in part anguish and part ecstasy, and not only heard the cries but felt them through their areas of shared body pressure where sweat was sticking skin to skin. The Duke’s son lifted his hands up again, pressing them against the inside of Madeline’s legs as if to spread them further, though she was certain that was not possible without tearing some of her thigh muscles apart. She called out in her distress, elbows clamped hard against Yvonne’s, as open as a church door to any man who wanted to enter her. Edith and Diane were standing at each side of Lord Horace, reaching down to guide him into her. Algy’s hands were kneading every square inch of her breasts . . .
Madeline threw her head back, opened her eyes and mouth and cried aloud to the watchers around the chaise lounge as Horace took her in great thrusts on top of Yvonne. Algy’s glittering eyes looked down on her total debasement with mild interest.
“Cheer up, Madeline,” he said. “By the time we’ve finished with you nobody is going to be able to call you a foolish virgin.”
THE END