The Devil's Surrogate (8 page)

Harriet
recognised all the men who came to her in turn and used her
helpless body like slavering beasts, clearly unable to believe
their good fortune, and just as obviously not giving a single
thought to the poor girl inside the mask. The fact that they
assumed she was Matilda did nothing to lessen her ordeal; if
anything, it served to emphasise the cruelty of her tormentors, for
she doubted they would have worried who it was Crawley had turned
over to them, and even if they suspected her true identity it would
have made little or no difference to them.

In her eyes,
the five men who took her represented the worst element of their
little local society, although only one of them, Peter Farren,
actually lived in the village itself. In theory, he was a
wheelwright, but he had not worked much in that trade since old
John Tyler the wagon maker died and his daughter passed the
business on to a cousin in a village five miles to the south. Every
week or so, Farren would ride down and work for a day or two, but
in between he barely earned a living labouring on the surrounding
farms. His reputation as a drinker and a sloth meant that even this
work was sparse as he was only ever hired during the busiest parts
of the season.

The same was
more or less true of the other four. One, George Prentice, was the
youngest son of a sheep farmer. He scrounged enough from the old
man to drink and gamble, and did only as much as was necessary to
persuade Harry Prentice not to kick him out. Alfred Diggins went
from village to village and from farm to farm performing odd repair
jobs and ditch clearing. His brother, Edward helped him
occasionally and from time to time went off to the city for
unspecified reasons.

The fifth man was originally a Londoner, Thaddeus Gilbert.
What he did for a living no one really knew for he was never seen
to work locally. It was rumoured he had originally been a thief in
the capital and that he kept a hoard of gold coins hidden somewhere
around the small cottage he rented from James Calthorpe's father,
the miller Francis Calthorpe. Like the others, he spent much of his
time in the
Black Drum
, but unlike them he never seemed short of a shilling or two,
and would stand his drinking cronies rounds when they were short of
cash.

Jacob Crawley
would not have had to offer this seedy band much by way of
inducement to join him, Harriet reflected grimly. There was not one
among them who might not have sold his own grandmother if the price
was right, and they would see acting as the witchfinder's bodyguard
an easy way to make extra drinking money.

Harriet
blinked, and looked up as yet another shadow loomed over her. It
was Thaddeus Gilbert again, the third time he had come to her in
what was probably no more than two hours, although time was now
something Harriet had no way of judging accurately. He stood over
her, unbuckled his belt and dropped his breeches, revealing the
massive penis she now knew only too well.

'Get your legs
open, slut,' he commanded in a raspy voice without further
ceremony. 'Can't waste a good pussy while it's still available.
Mind you, if your grandmamma comes up with the money, we might get
to enjoy each other's company for a day or so longer, eh? I hope
she does, sister, for both our sakes. I seen too many pretty
wenches dancing on the end of the rope to find the prospect as good
as the alternative. Now lay ye back, and try to act like you're
alive this time, otherwise I'll like as not take my belt to your
arse!'

Sarah was
almost relieved when Ross returned, even though she knew what must
inevitably follow. How long she had remained spread-eagled and
impaled upon that terrible seat she could not tell, but the sound
of the blood pulsing in her temples seemed to have grown both
louder and slower, and her shadowy prison felt as if it had slipped
into a timeless eternity of its own.

'Still
comfortable on the throne, I see,' Ross remarked dryly.

Sarah peered
out at him wondering just what sort of man could treat a fellow
human in this fashion, and apparently even find humour in her
plight. Had she not been gagged so efficiently, she knew she would
have felt compelled to launch upon him a stream of invectives that
would have had both her parents turning in their graves. As it was,
all she could do was sit and glare back at him.

'By the time
you leave here,' Ross said, moving closer to her, 'you'll think
nothing of opening your legs to any man that commands you.' He
reached out and with the backs of two fingers traced a feathery
line down the length of her gaping sex lips.

Before she
could stop herself, Sarah felt a tremble of spiky heat run from her
groin up her spine and explode inside her head like a small
fireball.

'You see,'
Ross said, smiling thinly, 'there are already some things you
cannot keep yourself from doing and being. You're beginning to
understand that you no longer have any control over your existence,
nor any control over the way in which your body wants to react.
Quite soon now your flesh will demand things that only a short time
ago you would surely have found abhorrent in the extreme, and you
will crawl willingly at the feet of any master who you think might
give them to you.' He reached out and gently ran one fingertip
about her right nipple.

Again a shiver
passed up her back.

'Not so big as
Titty Kitty, but pretty titties all the same.' He moved his finger
to her left nipple.

Although Sarah
tried to steel herself, the resulting sensation was almost
identical.

'If I'd done
that to you in a drawing room a day or so ago,' Ross drawled, 'I
daresay you'd have slapped my face and cried out for your servants
to toss me into the street, but already you're understanding that
feeling of helplessness a slave needs to experience as her entire
life. Do you feel yourself to be a slave yet? Hmm, maybe not quite
yet, but very soon I promise you will.' His fingers descended to
her labia again, and this time probed just between them.

To Sarah's
horror, she realised she was quite wet down there as the two digits
slipped easily over her lubricated flesh.

Ross chuckled,
and probed slightly deeper. 'Your body understands what your mind
is still fighting against,' he told her. 'Here you are, primed and
ready for a hot cock, and yet inside your head you still want to
fight it, to fight even the desire for one. Shall I put my hot cock
in here for your body's sake, slave Sarah?' Abruptly he stepped
back, breaking the intimate contact. 'Maybe not just yet,' he said
teasingly. 'Maybe we should encourage your body with a few more
little tricks.' He leaned forward, and suddenly his lips were
around her left nipple. He sucked on it, drawing it into his mouth
until the ring beneath it was pressed against his lower lip.

Sarah groaned
into her gag and only the broad strap about her waist prevented her
from arching forward with an instinct she would never have believed
herself capable of.

'Very nice,'
Ross commented, straightening up and stepping back again. 'Let's
try the other one.' Leaning forward again, he repeated the action
on her other nipple.

This time
Sarah was ready for the shockwaves, yet still she could do no more
than fight the urge to jerk forward against the straps, for her
head quickly began to buzz and she could feel the first warm
trickle of her escaping juices on her inner thighs.

'Now your body
is really betraying you,' Ross informed her. 'We both know I could
take you easily now. If I removed your gag, would you perhaps even
beg me to take you? No, I think not.' He shook his head. 'Your mind
would still make you cry out and curse me, no doubt, whatever your
body really wanted. And that's what this is all about, slave girl,
freeing you from the mental restraints of years with the physical
restraints in which you now sit. But be assured, my sweet little
cock-sheath, free you I shall, and quicker than you might
think!'

They came to
the fence about a mile-and-a half into the woods. It was a simple
structure, with eight or nine inch square sectioned posts driven
deep into the ground every fifteen paces or so, and horizontal
lengths fixed a few inches above the ground a similar distance from
the top. To these had been nailed thinner vertical palings, set
four or five inches apart, forming an impenetrable barrier some ten
feet high and offering no purchase for a would be climber.

'They must
have cut down half these woods to build this,' Paddy Riley
whispered, grinning at his two companions. He looked to left and
right, to where the fence disappeared as far as the eye could see
along the broad swathe cut through trees in either direction, a
further precaution against anyone using nature as an aid to scaling
the perimeter. 'You say this goes all the way round? How far, for
the love of Michael?'

'Miles,' Toby
grinned back. 'But they didn't get all this timber from the woods
here,' he added. 'I remember when I was young there were wagons
coming and going for weeks, and all these men down from London,
most of them. Spent nigh on the entire summer putting this lot
up.'

'Like their
privacy, for sure,' Sean Kelly observed dryly. He peered up at the
sharpened tops of the palings. 'Are we going over or under, me old
sergeant friend? I've got a length of rope in me pack and a small
trencher, too. The earth here feels a bit hard though, and I reckon
they'll have bedded these bastards in a good foot or so.'

'We'll go
through,' Paddy said. 'I've a small saw here, not nearly so big as
I'd like, so it'll take maybe half an hour, but I'd rather take the
time and make sure we have a decent bolthole if we get rumbled. A
man trying to shin up over this lot would make a good target for
those bastards, and we've already seen how straight they can
shoot.'

'What about
the dogs?' Toby reminded him. 'They've got keepers with dogs
patrolling, and those dogs hear just about anything louder than a
rabbit farting.'

'We'll just
have to go real slow like,' Paddy said. He heaved the pack off his
shoulder and dropped it to the ground at his feet. A moment later
he was drawing out a foot long blade with a gleaming, serrated
edge. 'My da' used to use this to cut into Lord Fleming's barns and
hencoops. I nicked it off him ten years ago, and just sort of
forgot to give it back. Useful little tool this is and I'm never
without it. Amazing what uses something like this can have to a
soldier on his travels, but then that's a whole lot of other
stories and we've got work to do. Sean, you get along that way
about fifty yards, and Toby, you do the same the other way. Keep
your eyes peeled and your ears flapped well back and whistle to me
if you hear anything. And Sean, the first sign of anyone with
anything that looks like it might shoot, make sure you pick the
bugger off before he gets a chance to take a pot shot in my
direction. You let me catch one, and by the Holy Mother I'll come
back and haunt you for sure!'

'Are these
costumes entirely necessary, Grayling?' Sir Peregrine Wellthorne
peered down at himself and wrinkled his nose. The tight leather
breeches and figure-hugging jerkin had been dyed black to match the
heavy boots. Alongside him, Roderick Grayling stood similarly
dressed, except he also wore a black leather hood mask that covered
his features down to just below his nose, leaving two narrow slits
for his eyes.

'Not
entirely
necessary my dear fellow,' Grayling chuckled, 'but they do
serve a purpose as defence against thorns and suchlike, and the
masks add an element of mystery that is slightly terrifying to our
quarry. Besides, this way they have little idea who it is that is
actually bearing down on them, any more than we can tell one of the
pretty feathered things from another.'

'Well, I must
say, I feel a trifle foolish,' Peregrine complained, eyeing the
mask he held in his hands with a mixture of suspicion and distaste.
He looked around the drawing room as if expecting someone to burst
in on them at any moment.

Grayling laid
a reassuring hand on his arm. 'Relax, Wellthorne,' he urged. 'Take
some more brandy and then get your mask on and no one will know who
you are. There are three more guests to join the hunt, and none of
them has any idea as to the identity of the others any more than
you would know them or they you.'

Peregrine
sniffed, and walked heavily across to the cabinet upon which the
brandy decanter stood.

'Not too heavy
on that,' Grayling called out. 'Not that I mind how much of my
brandy you drink while you're here, for you're an honoured guest,
but it helps to keep the head reasonably clear for the hunt itself.
A fellow can break an ankle if he trips over a trailing root or a
stray chunk of stone.'

'Tell me,
Grayling,' Wellthorne replaced the decanter and picked up his glass
goblet, 'these pistols we're using, you're sure they don't injure
these girls permanently?'

'Of course
not,' Grayling assured him, smiling. 'I'd not risk wasting valuable
merchandise just for a few hours fun. No, all they fire is a soft
pellet of thin leather sewn about oil-soaked muslin. They sting
like hell and can knock the wind out of a girl, but they're not
very accurate above twenty paces, so we have to get in fairly
close, which makes it more of a sport, don't you think?'

'Seems to me a
fellow would have to get very lucky, or else land several hits, in
order to bring his bird to ground,' Peregrine observed.

Grayling
nodded. 'The knack is to hit the right places,' he said. 'In the
stomach or the lower chest will wind them for sure, and a hit
around the top of the leg numbs the muscles and usually sends them
into spasms, which makes running much harder. A hit on the head
will usually stun them completely, but the head is off limits here.
If the slug catches the wrong spot it can kill, and we did lose one
girl last year. So no head shots, please. Have yourself some sport
with a few shots at their titties, by all means. But remember, you
want to enjoy the prize to the full afterwards, so you want to keep
your bird wide awake for the table!' He turned away and walked
across to the window looking out across the lawn. 'Well sir, as
soon as you've finished your drink I think we should make a start.
It doesn't hurt to keep the birds waiting for a little while, keeps
them nicely on their toes, but time marches on and the sun is
almost overhead now.'