Damsels in Distress (7 page)

‘Oh please, it is too big,’ she tried again as he gripped her hips tight and pulled her back onto his erection.

‘Don’t babble, it’s not ladylike,’ he snorted, giving her buttock a light spank. ‘You are going to be properly buggered, Lady Eleanor, so just relax, do as you are told, and
enjoy
.’

Eleanor gasped and groaned and strained against the chains. He felt impossibly large inside her, yet still he pushed deeper and deeper, and even when it seemed he could go no further her ordeal was only beginning, for the disgusting Dagonard began to fuck her bottom in earnest, grabbing a fistful of spanked buttock in each hand and pistoning into her.

At first she was aware of little other than discomfort, but as he buggered her with increasing passion she felt a perverse excitement simmering in the pit of her stomach. It was shameful, but there was nothing she could do to suppress it.

‘Starting to get hot, my lady?’ he goaded, and she couldn’t withhold a sigh of delight as he reached around and stroked her cunny. His cock continued to pump back and forth, deep inside her bottom, and Eleanor writhed and gasped and groaned.

Suddenly the dwarf started cursing, and to her dismay he pulled back on her hips again, submerging himself even deeper into her, then with one last obscene oath he grunted like a wild boar, and she felt hot and viscous liquid fill her rectum.

‘Well, well, my sluttish lady,’ he eventually panted, ‘I never buggered quite so fine an arse as that, I swear it.’

‘Listen, someone comes!’ Eleanor whispered, and Lynet, Isoud, Elaine and Igraine hurried to join her at the cell bars.

‘I hope it is not more maidens,’ Igraine said anxiously.

Eleanor murmured an agreement. Their cell had become crowded as Sir Peris captured more damsels, and other cages had even more fair occupants. In the long year of her captivity, Sir Peris had added ever more girls to his collection until there was little room for any more.

‘It is the dwarf,’ whispered Isoud. A young and rather timid girl with golden curls, she had a terrible fear of Dagonard.

For once he did not drag more captives with him, but hurried straight to their cell and unlocked the iron door.

‘Quickly, Lady Eleanor,’ he said, gesturing, and she hesitantly stepped out into the passage, her heart beating faster as always when she was summoned, wondering what it was she was wanted for.

The dwarf locked the cell before explaining. ‘Sir Lancelot has discovered us at last,’ he said hurriedly, ignoring the gasps the information produced from the caged girls. ‘Sir Peris is sure to be bested. Our delightful haven can survive no more.’

A strong hand closed on Eleanor’s wrist and he pulled her along the passageway, and in the torture chamber he paused to take a heavy iron collar and lock it around her throat, then fixing a length of chain to it.

‘But what, where are you taking me?’ she cried.

Dagonard looked at her with surprised eyes. ‘Lady Eleanor, I have told you many times how much I esteem you. I would rather bugger your gorgeous arse than any other in the world, so as I am escaping, I am taking you with me. The rest of these girls can be liberated by Sir Lancelot, or not, but you, my lady, are coming with me.’

Her mind reeling, Eleanor let him drag her down another dank passageway. He stopped before a little door, and producing a key from his tunic, he unlocked and opened it and pulled her through. It led into a low tunnel, and crouching she was forced to follow as he ran.

At last they reached another locked door, beyond which was a stable with two horses already saddled and provisioned. ‘I always thought this day might come,’ he disclosed. ‘So I have been prepared for it for some time now.’

From the shadows Dagonard produced a previously secreted cloak and threw it around Eleanor, hiding her collar and chain within its folds and covering her nakedness. He helped her mount a palfrey, then jumping onto his horse he tied her bound hands to the pommel of her saddle, before taking the palfrey’s reins and leading her out of the stable.

With a shock she realised they were already a distance from the castle. The low tunnel had led out into the forest, and the dwarf had apparently laid his plans well and there was little chance of escaping him.

‘Halt!’ a deep, melodious voice cried.

‘Sir knight, I beg you by the rules of chivalry to let us pass, do not accost my lady,’ Dagonard gabbled, clearly apprehensive before the armoured stranger proudly astride a fine mount.

Eleanor’s mind reeled, but as she was trying to decide what to do the young knight’s gaze alighted on her tied wrists and his brow furrowed. Ignoring Dagonard’s protests he spurred his horse towards her and, with a polite apology, opened the front of her cloak. His eyes widened.

‘Unhand her!’ the dwarf demanded, loosing a large mace from his saddle and advancing, bravely or foolishly Eleanor could not decide.

‘And you are…?’ the young knight mocked, drawing a flashing sword just as another knight in battered armour rode through the trees towards them.

‘Sir Gareth, what have we here?’ he called.

‘Lancelot, this dwarfish monster has captured this poor lady,’ the young man said.

‘She is mine!’ Dagonard roared. ‘He wants to steal her! She belongs to me, and I will have her or die trying!’

‘Well, will you two gentlemen accept my adjudication?’ Lancelot enquired, with an amused expression.

‘Of course,’ said Gareth.

Dagonard looked less sure, but he observed Gareth’s gleaming sword and Lancelot’s grim, battle hardened visage, and finally shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but she is mine…’

‘Enough!’ Lancelot held up a hand. ‘It is quite simple. My lady, who would you go with; Sir Gareth or this… person?’

Eleanor looked at Sir Gareth. He was, she thought, the very picture of knighthood that she’d dreamed of in her girlhood: handsome and courteous, virtuous and kind. Then she studied Dagonard’s ugly face and twisted body and remembered countless cruelties and vile humiliations.

‘Good sir,’ she said to Lancelot, her voice trembling slightly, the memories of her time in captivation quickly making her mind up, ‘I will go with the dwarf.’

‘My lady, I have your confession prepared,’ Richard Makepiece, Earl of Sheringham said, offering a piece of parchment. ‘All you need do to spare yourself this ordeal is to sign it.’

‘You would have me sign my own death warrant, sir?’ Lady Jane Winterton asked bitterly. ‘And have me perjure myself into the bargain? You would have me condemn myself in this world and the next?’

Sir Richard shrugged. The king’s spymaster was a big man with coarse features and a generous belly. His family were not of noble birth; his titles freshly minted in payment for his many services to King James and, Lady Jane thought, it certainly showed in his visage.

‘My lady, the king is merciful. He seeks only security. This papist conspiracy is undone already. Sign and throw yourself upon his mercy. It would be a pity to break so noble a form as yours in my dungeons.’

Despite his words, Jane saw no pity in his pale blue eyes. Rather, she thought, the ill-bred brute was eager to get on with his game. Well let him, she said to herself; the Wintertons had long been at court when the Makepieces were still saddlers. Let the oaf do his worst. She would show him what nobility could endure.

But that was her head talking; Jane’s heart was hammering furiously as she followed his back along the passageway. Two burly men at arms brought up the rear, rendering escape impossible, the faces of these silent creatures hidden by leather masks. No doubt this was to protect them should the wheel of fortune turn again, but it made them seem horribly sinister to Jane.

Lord Makepiece stopped at an oak door and produced an iron key. Beyond gloomy steps were but badly lit by guttering candles. ‘Take care, my lady,’ he cautioned, and led the way down to the torture chamber.

Lady Jane had been given leisure to imagine this place as she waited in her little locked room, but the reality was far worse. There were several grim looking machines. She recognised the rack with a shudder, but there were other apparatus the purpose of which she could not guess. The place smelt of pure fear, and she had to force her feet to continue down the stone steps. It was hot, and she realised that coals were glowing in a brazier, and with horror she saw that several irons were heating there. Suddenly she did not feel so brave, so proud or so noble. In fact, Lady Jane just felt like a very frightened nineteen-year-old girl.

At a word from Lord Makepiece the men grabbed her arms and pulled her further into the gloomy chamber, uncomfortably close to the glowing brazier. Chains descended from the low ceiling, on the end of which was iron manacles. The two men locked them about her wrists, then one of the men went to the wall and an alarming clanking echoed around the torture chamber as he pulled on the free end of the chains, lifting Jane’s arms high above her head until she had to stand on tiptoe.

The other guard knelt and fastened iron cuffs around her ankles, the cuffs fixed to chains attached to ringbolts in the stone floor. Lady Jane was strained tautly, uncomfortable and feeling extremely vulnerable. There was not a thing she could do now to protect herself.

‘All right, you can go,’ Lord Makepiece said, much to her surprise, and the silent men turned without a word and climbed the steps. They had frightened her, but their dismissal frightened her even more. What was Makepiece about to do that he did not want to be witnessed?

The earl turned to the brazier and her heart began to pound once again as he picked up one of the iron rods, which he used to poke the glowing coals vigorously. Sparks flew, the coals glowed even brighter, and when he withdrew the poker its tip was glowing white-hot. Makepiece looked at it for a moment before replacing it in the brazier, and Jane nearly fainted with relief.

He turned to face her, smiling slightly, the flickering orange light of the brazier making him look almost satanic.

‘My Lady Jane,’ he said at last, ‘it is hot down here. Allow me to help you become more comfortable.’

Jane suppressed a gasp of apprehension as he picked up a large knife, and walked towards her.

‘You will sign, of course, you realise,’ he said, almost conversationally. ‘The question is not
if
you sign, but
when
you sign.’

He stopped just in front of her, and she tried to look disdainfully at him, but the truth was that fear was stripping away her ability to remain defiant. Makepiece raised the knife to her throat, she held her breath, then he slowly licked his lips and traced the shape of the upper slopes of her breasts, drifted the metal blade between her breasts, then with a sudden, aggressive, and practiced swipe that made the poor girl squeal with alarm he sliced her bodice open.

Fear, shame and shock competed for precedence within Jane, but Makepiece was not finished. Evilly, deliberately, unhurriedly, with every indication that this was an ordinary day’s work for him, he cut away her dress, chemise and petticoats until she stood in her chains, entirely naked except for her silk stockings. The Earl of Sheringham put the knife down and picked up a nearby candelabrum, which he held up so that its guttering light of five candles flickered on her naked body. Jane flinched from his scrutiny, but there was nothing she could do except shamefully lower her eyes and look at the floor.

‘My dear,’ he said at last, ‘you are very beautiful. I knew your face was lovely, of course, but your form is quite exquisite too.’

He set the candelabrum on the floor at her feet and then straightened up and reached out, making her gasp as his fingertips brushed her belly. Delicately he stroked up until they touched the underside of her breast.

‘Do you molest all your victims, sir?’ she managed to protest.

‘Oh no,’ Makepiece said calmly, taking her nipple between finger and thumb and squeezing. ‘No, sadly, most of my work here is with far less beautiful traitors than you, my lady.’

He raised his free hand and took hold of her other nipple, and squeezing both, she felt them swell beneath his touch. Powerless to stop her own nipples from betraying her, Jane felt the blood rise to her cheeks. Then, quite suddenly, he pinched both nipples hard and she cried out with pain and indignation.

Makepiece chuckled. ‘You must be very sensitive if that little pinch pained you, my lady,’ he said with an evil, lupine smile, and something snapped then, the sudden hurt in her breasts emphasising two things; one that she felt even mild pain very keenly, the other that chained thus her body was utterly vulnerable to his malice. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

Makepiece stooped to retrieve the candelabrum and circled her. She knew he was assessing her naked form from behind, for she could hear nothing and see nothing but the guttering of the candlelight. But this brooding presence was unbearable, and her naked bottom clenched in anticipation of a blow that never came.

‘Your arse is a noble sight indeed, Lady Jane,’ he said at last. ‘Your back and legs are things of beauty but your arse is sheer poetry. It seems almost a sacrilege to mar such perfection.’

She heard a rustle and guessed, perhaps
felt
, him move closer, and could not quite prevent a whimper of fear from escaping her lips. Then she felt his hand fondle her bottom.

‘Such lovely, warm, soft flesh,’ he growled in her ear. ‘It begs for my whip. Can you hear it, Lady Jane? Listen, it
pleads
for my whip.’

‘I’ll sign.’ Jane was startled to hear her own voice say such a thing. ‘Please sir, have mercy, I will sign your paper, only please…’

‘Oh no.’ The voice was lower, more hushed. ‘You had your chance, my little dove, and I am very pleased that you did not take it. You are in my place of work, and you are about to find out there is no such thing as mercy here.’

The fondling hand moved to her hip and then around, tickling her belly until she gasped. And it did not stop there. Jane gulped as fingers found their way to her pubis and stroked the brown curls there. He was so close now she could feel him press against her back, and feel his codpiece pressing into the cleft between her buttocks.

The trespassing fingers stroked the area around her clitoris and then probed lower, nestling between her cunny lips.

‘My lady,’ the voice growled again, ‘how is it I find you to be like this? I swear you are already wet, as juicy as a ripe Italian peach.’

Shame briefly engulfed fear in Jane’s palpitating heart, and the trickle of tears became two glistening streams. Yet still she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure as his cunning fingers explored, for all the fear and shame.

‘Sadly, however…’ Makepiece said as he pulled his fingers away from her, ‘this is neither the time nor the place for pleasure. This is the time for pain.’

With that he walked to one wall, and in the guttering orange torchlight Jane could just make out ominous shapes hanging there. Lord Makepiece took his time inspecting the objects, before finally selecting one, and as he moved back towards her she could see it was a whip with nine or more thin tails.

‘We might as well start you with the whipcord, my dear,’ he said with a cold smile, holding the thing up for her to see. Each lash was made of thin and rather stiff looking cord. He felt the tails and frowned. ‘But I fear it is a little dry,’ he said. ‘We find this type of whip hurts much more if moistened.’

Jane watched with mounting horror as he fetched a large pitcher of water and carefully placed the whiptails into it, and all too soon he pulled the dripping lashes out again. Jane found the whole process horribly fascinating; indeed she simply could not look away.

There was a horrible hissing sound as Lord Makepiece struck the wooden bed of the rack with the cruel implement, and Jane saw myriad beads of water fly, sparkling in the candlelight and firelight, but she had no leisure to speculate on them, for the ogre was again moving around to take up position behind her.

‘Such a lovely body, Lady Jane, I truly ache to flog it,’ he said in a low growl, and then she heard the awful hissing sound again.

‘Hush, hush, my lady,’ Makepiece said softly, ‘I have not skinned you, quite. Such fair flesh will be unmarked once the sign of these whipcord kisses fades.’

Jane could not respond. Indeed she could do nothing but sob. The flogging had been simply excruciating. Her tormentor had concentrated on her back, whipping her mercilessly as her shrieks echoed around the dungeon. Her bottom and thighs had taken their share of whipcord lashes too. To Jane it had felt as though her whole back and behind was being flayed.

And still her hide was burning. In her young life she had never imagined, much less experienced, such intolerable discomfort.

It took time for the scalding sensations to subside a little, and time for her to stop breathing brokenly and quell her gasps and sobs. At last the pain became a duller throbbing, and only then did it occur to her that Makepiece had apparently left her alone.

At that moment a sound from a particularly gloomy corner of the dungeon made her start. She heard the rattle of a key in a lock and a girlish voice cry out. Another victim of the evil man!

Blinking away the tears that still blurred her vision, Jane strained to peer round into the gloom. Two figures emerged from the shadows; the familiar bulky form of Makepiece, and a slighter one, a girl. She was naked, but there was an iron collar around her throat, and her wrists and ankles were fettered with heavy chains.

‘This is Lady Jane, our latest guest, Polly,’ the brute announced. ‘You will see to her needs.’ Lord Makepiece reached out and patted Jane’s swollen cunny. ‘One need in particular, to start with.’

Polly’s body was lithe and shapely, and she was pretty, with wide eyes and long black hair, tied back into a ponytail. The girl’s skin was pale and flawless, except for a few livid welts curling around her flanks. She blinked solemnly at Makepiece’s order, and then anxiously licked her lips.

‘Yes, my lord,’ she said softly, dropping to her knees in front of Lady Jane, her chains clinking in the stillness of the dungeon as she moved.

Jane felt the naked girl’s tongue on her inner thighs, and could not quite suppress a gasp. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself from moaning as the girl began to lick upward, towards her pulsing sex.

‘I rescued Polly Fletcher from the gallows,’ Makepiece droned, Jane barely hearing his ominous words. ‘Like you, she is a traitor, I am afraid. Or at least, her husband was involved in a plot. She has been here for three months now and has quite repaid my generosity.’ Lord Makepiece sniggered, moved to the rack and leaned against it, and Jane watched aghast as he unlaced his breeches and took out his swollen cock. But then Polly’s inquisitive tongue reached her nether lips and she bucked in response.

‘That’s it, my pretty Polly, lick the little trollop until she begs for more,’ he encouraged between chuckles, openly caressing his engorged cock as he watched.

In a futile attempt to retain the last scrap of her dignity, Jane tried her best not to respond to that cunning mouth, but it was quite hopeless. Polly flicked her tongue around Jane’s labia with immense expertise, and even before it began to tease her clitoris she was closing her eyes tight and writhing in her bonds. When she opened her eyes again she saw the leering grin of Lord Makepiece, lewdly pumping his bloated cock in his fist, and looking down she saw Polly’s naked body and gently bobbing head, and the combination of so much visual stimulus swept forth an intense orgasm that near took her breath away, her gasps and shrieks filling the dungeon chamber once again.