Damsels in Distress (8 page)

‘Ah!’ Jane gasped in pain.

‘I’m sorry, your ladyship,’ Polly said in a soft voice, ‘the brine stings, I know, but after the sting it will feel better.’

To Jane’s fevered mind the brine Polly was splashing over her whipped back and buttocks felt as if it was stripping away her flesh, but she was still chained and there was nothing she could do to avoid the torment. ‘Oh please, that’s enough, for pity’s sake enough,’ she gasped.

‘Sorry, your ladyship,’ Polly answered in a strained voice, ‘but the master told me to brine you thoroughly.’

‘And do you always do as that beast tells you, even when he is not present?’ Jane knew the answer. Three months in that cruel dungeon had been quite sufficient for Makepiece to break the dark-haired girl completely to his cruel will.

He had climaxed just after Jane’s shuddering orgasm, and she watched, astonished and transfixed as his creamy emission splattered audibly onto the stone flags of the dungeon floor. With a grunt he then ordered the kneeling Polly to lick him clean and then lap up the cold spunk from the flagstones, Jane shocked to watch the girl obey his outrageous order without a moment’s hesitation.

How many whippings had it taken, Jane wondered as she winced against the stinging salt water splashing over her bottom, to bring the girl to such a state of submission? She seemed to have become his possession absolutely; there was little hope of help from that particular quarter.

Polly splashed the brine over Jane’s whipped thighs and the bound girl closed her eyes and opened her mouth to moan again.

‘Easy, my girl, easy!’ Lord Makepiece murmured as Jane fell into his arms. On his orders Polly had released the mechanism that held the chains taut, and with muscles numbed by two hours in one position, and weakened by her flogging, Jane collapsed as the chains slackened. But Makepiece knew his business and was ready to catch her, and held her in his arms as Polly hurried to unlock the manacles about her ankles.

‘There, there, my dear,’ he said, lifting and carrying her across the dungeon. He stopped at a chair, which he sat upon, letting Jane settle on his lap. He began to massage her arms and shoulders, which was painful and yet welcome, and little by little her aches eased.

‘Polly, the food,’ he ordered.

Her chains clanking as she moved, the naked prisoner hurried across the dungeon and disappeared up the stone steps, returning a few moments later carrying a tray laden with good food; fresh white bread, cold beef and chicken, fresh fruit, and wine to drink. There were also two wooden bowls filled with stale bread crusts.

Lord Makepiece kept Jane on his lap as he fed himself, ordering Polly to hand him a chicken leg and a goblet of red wine, offering nothing to either of the naked prisoners, and despite her fear and shame Jane realised how very hungry she was.

At last the tormentor had eaten enough, though he retained the wine goblet. ‘All right, Polly, you may now prepare the prisoner’s food,’ he said, and Jane watched as the naked girl took the two bowls of crusts and placed them on the floor, then took the pitcher and poured water into them.

‘The crusts are old and dry,’ Sheringham said conversationally to Jane, ‘but I am generous and allow them to be moistened. Now, watch Polly, for from now on this is how you will feed.’

Jane watched aghast as Polly knelt before the bowls, placing her palms flat on the floor beside one. Then the girl lowered her head and began eating, direct from the bowl, like an animal.

‘Now, your ladyship,’ Makepiece said to Jane, ‘you may claim your supper, too. You will eat in the same manner.’

So hungry was Jane that she had little choice but to slide from his lap and fall to her knees. She looked at the bowl, and at Polly, scoffing her crusts like a pig. She looked up at Makepiece and met his condescending sneer. His dark, malicious eyes bored into hers, and in the end she had to look away. She shivered, conscious of her nakedness and her vulnerability in that terrible place. A sigh escaped her as she knelt before he bowl and lowered her head to its stale, wholly unappetising contents, blushing furiously and quivering with shame.

‘To think, this will be the last place I will ever see…’ Jane sighed miserably.

‘What do you mean, my lady?’ Polly anxiously broke into her thoughts. ‘What a thing to say.’

After the frugal meal Jane discovered from where Lord Makepiece had produced Polly. In a little alcove of the dungeon was a small but sturdy iron cage, into which both girls were herded, Jane having been collared and manacled like Polly. There was barely room for both of them to lie flat, so they sat side by side, cold iron bars against their backs, each lost in her own thoughts.

‘It is the truth, I am afraid,’ Jane said sadly. ‘Once I sign Lord Makepiece’s confession my execution is certain. And I must sign for I cannot endure more pain.’

‘My master,’ Polly said softly, ‘is fond of beauty, my lady. He does not like to waste it…’

‘No,’ Jane said. ‘And he will keep you while you serve his fancy. But I fear that I am more important. Neither Lord Makepiece nor his majesty will suffer me to live.’

‘Perhaps,’ Polly said, ‘but do not despair, my lady. My master will not see you on the scaffold if he can help it, and he is a clever man. Perhaps he will find a way…’

‘Oh, God in heaven have mercy, I cannot bear it!’ Lady Jane groaned again.

‘I am afraid that you must bear it, my lady,’ Lord Makepiece chuckled. He patted Jane’s naked thigh fondly and went back to lashing Polly with his leather strap.

The beast was right, Jane realised as she bit her lip and vainly tried to move in some way that would help relieve the pressure. She was secured astride something he called his ‘hobby horse’. A length of wood an inch wide was set about four feet above the floor, its lower edge set into sturdy posts. The upper edge was cut into serrations, and Jane had been obliged to sit astride the cruel contraption. Her arms were manacled high behind back and fixed to a taut chain that pulled her wrists towards the stone ceiling. Her knees were bound together below the span, and the pressure on her most tender parts brought tears to her eyes, and was soon quite unendurable.

Then the true cruelty of the arrangement became clear. There was one way she could relieve the pressure of the horse’s teeth as they bit into her vulva; she could try to take some weight on her arms. The problem was that her arms were already wrenched up painfully behind her, and any increase in that pressure sent agonising pains shooting through her shoulders. And yet, despite the cruel cost of pulling down, the action did little to relieve the agony in her privates. There was simply no way she could haul down hard enough.

Yet every time she stopped trying this desperate stratagem, the pain between her legs engulfed her again. And so, soon enough, knowing it would not work but having no alternative but to try, Jane would grit her teeth and pull down on the chain once more.

For the first few minutes Makepiece watched her closely, his cold eyes lingering on her writhing, naked body, while he stroked the bulge in the front of his breeches quite openly. Then he ordered Polly to fetch a strap and stand in position, bending from the waist to present her bottom, and grasping the chains at the point where they left her ankle fetters.

‘Watch and learn, my dear,’ Makepiece said to Jane, gesturing towards the bending girl’s presented bottom. ‘Polly no longer needs to be chained in position for her whippings, and soon you will beg me to chastise you in the same way.’

‘Please, Lord Makepiece, I cannot bear this any longer,’ Jane pleaded. ‘Please, whip me if you will. Flog me instead of Polly; only let me off this terrible thing!’

‘And will you sign the confession, my proud lady?’

‘Oh, yes sir!’ she wailed. ‘I will do anything, only let me off for pity’s sake!’

‘You see, I did say that you would sign, and I have also predicted that you will take your whippings readily and without being secured into position. But not yet. As yet you have only begun to understand the torments I can visit upon you…’

‘For pity’s sake, sir,’ she repeated desperately. ‘Let me off it… I will do
anything
…’

‘Indeed, in good time you will do anything I ask. But I doubt if you are yet ready, so here is a test, my dear. I require you to stop this foolish bleating and begging. Be silent now, whilst I flog Polly.’

‘There now, is that better?’ Lord Makepiece asked gently.

‘Oh yes,’ Jane sighed as he gently massaged her aching shoulders.

‘Yes,
master
,’ he prompted, a harder edge entering his voice.

To call this ill-born brute master, as if she were a yokel or a servant, it was intolerable.

‘Yes,
master
,’ he repeated, and his grip tightened on her sore shoulders, sending shards of sharp pain shooting through her upper arms.

‘Yes… m-master,’ Jane echoed hoarsely.

Makepiece chuckled and kissed her on the forehead, before gently rubbing the stiffness from her shoulders once again.

‘Please, I cannot bear it…’ Jane babbled, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘Pish, my pretty traitor, have you no other refrain?’ Makepiece mocked. ‘It seems to me that is what you always plead.’

‘No, I mean… oh… it hurts like the devil, master, please have mercy…’

‘What I want is for you to remain motionless. I have told you more than once.’

She tried to adhere to his demands but the pain in her knees was too much. She tried to shift her weight subtly, without him noticing, but there was a horrible hiss and she shrieked as the whipcord cracked across her naked breasts. For a second she was lost in a swirling universe of pain.

For how long she had been there she could not guess. It was probably several hours at least, and yet the nearest candle seemed barely to have burned down at all.

She wore a yoke; two thick planks hinged with openings for her neck and wrists, and now locked together like stocks. It was heavy on her shoulders and forced her head up uncomfortably, but far more vexing to the naked prisoner were the rough twigs placed under her knees. Exacerbated by the heaviness of the yoke, the twigs dug excruciatingly into her flesh. She had been forbidden to move, and Makepiece lurked ominously with his plaited whip. Every time her discomfort became too much and provoked any movement he lashed her across her naked breasts again.

‘Here girl, come,’ Lord Makepiece ordered, and almost eagerly Jane obeyed him. Chains clanking she crawled across the flagstones of the dungeon, wincing as her sore knees met hard stone.

He held a piece of crust, but as she reached him he lifted it higher. Jane kept her hands on the floor but stretched her neck up, opening her mouth to receive the pathetic morsel, which she caught between her teeth when he dropped it. The bread was stale and tasted a little mouldy, but she was very hungry and chewed it thankfully.

Not that it was solely hunger that made her so free of pride. Makepiece was not tormenting her, not whipping her or putting her on the cruel horse or rack, which made her happy. When he patted her head there was a warm glow in her belly. When he fed her stale bread she felt bizarrely happy. It was a transformation so strange she could not have begun to explain it.

‘Now girl, roll over,’ he ordered, and without hesitation Lady Jane Winterton did as he demanded. She lay flat on the flagstones and then rolled onto her back, holding her chained hands above her head and keeping her legs apart so that her naked sex was open to her master. The pose made her feel terribly vulnerable, particularly as he had a whip to hand and she was still unable to determine his moods or guess his intensions. Jane’s heart began hammering and she felt herself perspiring, and she also felt a keen thrill coursing through her body.

To her indescribable relief, on this occasion he did not pick up the whip and flog her naked breasts and belly and thighs. Instead he reached down and stroked her head, just as if she were a favourite pet.

‘Good girl, Jane,’ he chuckled as he patted her.

Relief engulfed her and she wallowed in a feeling of well-being. She was naked, she was on her back on the floor of a grim dungeon, and her brutal tormentor was treating her as if she were his pet creature. A few days earlier she would have died rather than endure it, but now she responded with smiles and whimpers of pleasure. Those few days had witnessed extraordinary changes in the once proud Lady Jane.

Lord Makepiece stopped petting her and picked another crust from the wooden bowl at his feet. He held it up and shook it invitingly.

‘Jane,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘on your knees and beg!’

At the first hint of a sound of key in lock Jane stiffened, and felt Polly, slumped close beside her in the iron cage, do exactly the same. The two prisoners lay, naked bodies pressing against each other in the confined space. Both began trembling with anticipation instantly.

There was but one question in Jane’s mind as she heard Makepiece’s heavy footfall on the dungeon steps; the one question that always seized her heart when he made his entrance. Jane could not have said whether it was day or night, nor how many days or weeks she had endured in her master’s dungeon, but these were not the question that made her quiver tensely as she waited in the cage.

He was walking across the floor of the chamber. He did not pause to take a whip from where they hung on the wall. Could this be a good sign? Might her master be coming to take his pleasure in her bottom or her mouth, or bring her and Polly food? She felt Polly shivering, every bit as apprehensive as she was, beside her. There simply was no way that she had found to tell if he was coming to whip her or to pet her, or to torment Polly similarly.