Wages of Sin (11 page)

‘Strip her and bind her,' he ordered, indicating the altar rail. The last pitiful remnants of her shift were torn away and she was bent over the hard wood, her wrists lashed to the balustrade. Pinioned in place, she knelt in a parody of devotion, her breasts thrust upward by the pressure of the rail, the soft globes of her buttocks jutting invitingly behind. Giggling lasciviously, the ferret-faced monk used this opportunity to fondle her breasts, gripping and squeezing them in his bony hands. Her skin crawled and, to her horror, she realised that his fat companion had reached beneath the bulge of his belly and was fumbling at himself through the heavy folds of his habit as he stood and watched.

Terrified, she craned over her shoulder to see Mother Ursula, standing with a quirt in her hand, while Father Peter smiled on approvingly.

‘So,' she purred, tapping the short length of plaited leather in her hand, ‘you sought to oust me, did you?' Her arm rose and the quirt descended on Jane's naked bottom, leaving a white weal across the creamy skin. ‘You told Father Peter of my wickedness?' Jane's buttocks jerked as another blow reddened the shrinking flesh. ‘You even wished to murder me?'

This time Jane screamed as the third blow landed. ‘Forgive me, Reverend Mother, forgive me!' she wailed. She struggled against her bonds, but the cords merely bit the tighter into her aching wrists and her writhings served only to inflame Mother Ursula further. Her arm rose and fell in a paroxysm of rage, until Jane's bottom was scarlet and incandescent with pain.

Exhausted at last, Mother Ursula's arm fell to her side and the beating stopped. The only sounds were those of Jane's frantic sobbing, Mother Ursula's pants of exertion and the heavy breathing of the watchers.

And it was the latter that frightened Jane the most.

Closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer that her ordeal was at an end - but with little hope that it would be answered.

An icy hand touched her aching bottom and she flinched, waiting for the pain to begin again. It wasn't long in coming as long fingers trailed down the cleft of her buttocks to the vulnerable opening of her vulva, parted the soft lips and thrust themselves rudely inside. She groaned and writhed, but this only served to plunge the invading fingers deeper into her private place.

She groaned again, this time in despair, as the scolding pain from her beaten bottom radiated through her lower body, wakening a different kind of heat. As the fingers continued their invidious invasion she felt herself moisten in response, and there was a grunt of satisfaction from behind her. The hand withdrew and she was unsure whether she felt relief or disappointment.

In two quick strides Father Peter was standing in front of her. She looked up at him, her eyes begging for mercy, but he was relentless. With a cruel smile he traced the sign of the cross on her forehead with a finger coated in her own juices, and she shuddered at the blasphemy.

He clapped his hands and the two monks hurried forward with a heavy chair, placing it at the foot of the chancel steps. Unhurriedly, he took a seat and Mother Ursula joined him, sinking to her knees beside his chair in abject obedience. Flanked by his minions, he sat for several moments, staring at his helpless victim over steepled fingers as he decided what to do next. Jane waited in horrified expectation.

Finally he turned to the two animals beside him. ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servants,' he said, in a twisted parody of the parables. He waved an elegant hand towards her. ‘Now you may take your reward.'

Jane gasped as the implications of his words hit her. Her struggles redoubled as they eagerly divested themselves of their robes and advanced upon her. Her eyes flickered from one to the other, hardly believing what was about to happen. Their nakedness was obscene. The weaselly monk's skinny body seemed hardly strong enough to support the massive organ that sprouted from between his thighs, its swollen length bobbing as he walked towards her, while his companion's gross wobbling belly practically concealed his member. It peeked out from beneath the folds of flesh like a small pink mouse.

‘No...' she pleaded desperately. ‘Please, leave me alone!'

With a grunt the fat one sank to his knees in front of her, engulfing her in a wave of sweat and stale wine. One hand reached greedily for her pert young breasts, his fat fingers kneading and twisting the soft pink crests of her nipples until, despite herself, they rose, hot and hard in response. The other slid lower, between the rods of the altar rail, to tease the rising bud of her clitoris.

Behind her the scrawny one was kneeling too, as he fondled her nether regions. She whimpered and squirmed as one bony finger pushed its way into the tight pucker of her anus, but a sharp slap on her already tender bottom made her freeze obediently in place, fearful that resistance would bring more pain. He withdrew and bent his head and she could feel a wet tongue probing its way between her labia. She shivered in unwilling reaction, the tendrils of wicked lust spiralling out as she was lapped and fingered to meet the maddening sensations coming from her swollen nipples. The groan that broke from her lips was a mixture of pleasure and dismay.

His eyes hooded, Father Peter watched as the two monks fondled Jane's body. He had pulled his cassock up above his waist and his own member rose, thick and stiff, its head red and swollen, engorged with blood. His long fingers toyed with his shaft as Mother Ursula looked on in anticipation. He nodded at her and she knelt and reached for him, her mouth opening as she sucked him in. Her coif was dislodged by the movement and Jane watched in horrified fascination as her shaven, skull-like head bobbed up and down, one hand thrust frantically between her own thighs as she serviced her master.

A movement behind her brought her back to awareness of her own predicament. The skinny monk had finished his lapping and, taking his hard prick in one hand, he pushed it against the soft opening of Jane's body. She whimpered as her body tried to resist the invasion. There was a brief flash of pain, then his mighty member slid smoothly inside her and she groaned as he began to move, his skinny buttocks tensing as he thrust into her tight wetness.

The fat monk redoubled his efforts, bending to suck first one swollen nipple then the other into his greedy mouth as he continued to finger her. A scream began to build in her throat as she gave herself up to the lust that washed through her. She was no longer Lady Jane. She was no longer the unwilling novice. She was merely a bitch in heat being serviced by whichever hot cock presented itself to satisfy her needs.

Panting and gasping, the skinny monk heaved himself against her and she met every thrust with one of her own, taking every inch of him eagerly. A whine of disappointment escaped her as he groaned and fell away, his viscous come spurting before she could reach her own release.

Leaping to his feet with a lightness that defied his bulk, the fat monk hurried round to take his place and Jane grunted with satisfaction as another urgent prick slid inside her. Her breasts quivered and bounced as he jerked and pounded, his heavy body almost crushing her beneath its weight.

It was too much for Father Peter. He grasped Mother Ursula's neck and pulled her away, his cock leaving her mouth with an almost audible pop. She sprawled on the floor, bewildered, her habit round her waist, exposing her gaping cleft. She stared at him in dismay as he strode towards Jane.

He thrust his cock towards Jane's mouth, its swollen head still glistening with Mother Ursula's saliva, but she was beyond caring. Her lips peeled open and she sucked it in, secretly relishing the feel of the throbbing flesh stretching her mouth. He moaned as her tongue ran teasingly round the rim. One hand placed on the back of her head in a grotesque imitation of the blessing, he forced himself deeper into the velvet softness as she whimpered in a paroxysm of tormented lust.

The fat monk gave one final desperate thrust and pumped his seed inside her. Father Peter's prick swelled and jerked too, the salt taste of his juices filling her mouth, and Jane screamed in mindless pleasure as her own climax exploded forth.

She sagged back, only the bonds holding her in place. It was the sound of her own voice echoing from the roof of the chapel that brought her back to her senses. Sick comprehension swamped her. What was she becoming when her own body could betray her into wickedness and corruption? And how could there be any escape when even those who swore to uphold goodness were tainted with evil? Tears of despair trickled down cheeks still flushed from unholy lust, and darkness swept her soul.

There was no hope.

No hope at all.

 

 

 

The next few weeks passed in a mist of misery. When Mother Ursula bid Father Peter and his minions farewell, the nuns fluttering and giggling round them like a flock of giddy geese, Jane hid herself away, too shamed to show her face. Tormented by memories of that hideous evening she trudged about her menial duties without a word, head bowed lest any should see the guilt in her eyes. Even the arrival of the pedlar failed to shake her from the darkness that enveloped her.

Swaggering like a bantam cockerel, his face as brown and weather-beaten as the leather pack on his back, he strode into the courtyard as if he owned it. ‘What d'ye lack, ladies?' he asked, grinning, as he shrugged his pack from his shoulders and spread it out on the ground. ‘Pins? Needles?' He held up a few skeins of coarsely dyed thread. ‘Fine silks to embroider a new altar cloth?'

His wares were as shabby as himself, but the others gathered round as if he carried all the treasures of the Orient, glad of anything that broke the monotony of the convent routine. Even Mother Ursula hurried down, eager not for his cheap gewgaws but for the most precious commodity any pedlar carried - news of the outside world. The snippets of gossip he brought would provide fuel for the long winter months ahead, as it was hashed and rehashed, gaining savour with every telling.

And what news, too!

The money for the pins and needles safely tucked away in his greasy purse, and fortified by bread, cheese and ale, he settled down to tell his tale. Eyes widened and mouths fell open as it unfolded, as compelling as a fairytale. Lust and deception; the true queen locked away while a usurper took her place; betrayal and death - and all laced with tantalising whispers of witchcraft. It was better than any mummers' play.

Despite herself, Jane listened. She could not prevent a bitter smile. What difference did it make to her if Good King Henry put away his lawful wife and married the Great Whore? He was a man, wasn't he? And no different from the village bully who beat his wife if she burned the porridge, or used her till she was a raddled husk worn out by work and childbearing, then turned his attentions to someone younger and prettier. Her smile became cynical. This Anne Boleyn might be riding high just now, but what a man could do once he could do again - and if she lost his favour, what would happen to her then? For a moment a dark shadow seemed to block out the sun and she shivered as if a goose had walked over her grave. There would be no happiness for Mistress Boleyn. She shook off the unwanted premonition, smiled ruefully and went back to scraping plates into the slop bucket for the pigs that had replaced their unfortunate predecessors. What did the fate of this unknown woman matter to her? She had troubles enough of her own to contend with. She snorted. As for King Henry's making himself head of the church in order to wed her - it was ridiculous! The Pope was the head of the church and always would be. She looked round at the grey stones of the convent, timeless and immovable as the landscape it sat on, and heaved a miserable sigh. Nothing had changed in over a hundred years - and nothing ever would.

 

A few weeks later she was proved wrong. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the worn slate floor of the chapel when she heard the sound of hoof beats on the cobbled yard. Her first thought was that Father Peter and his cohorts had returned and she shrank inwardly, crouching down over her scrubbing brush as if to make herself invisible.

However, instead of a murmur of welcome, there came the sounds of argument. The dull rumble of a male voice was interrupted by Mother Ursula's lighter one, which rapidly rose in tones of dismayed dissent. Jane sat back on her heels in surprise. Who would dare argue with Mother Ursula? The woman's word was law. Throwing her brush into the bucket of dirty water she pushed herself to her feet and tiptoed to the door to listen.

The scene before her was totally unexpected. Mother Ursula, her face as scarlet as the crest of a cockerel, was standing, arms akimbo, in front of a group of half-a-dozen horsemen. Their leader, an expression of amused contempt on his lips, stared down at her.

‘How dare you force your way in here?' snarled Ursula. ‘This is a house of religion.' She drew herself up to full height and pointed towards the gate with a shaking arm. ‘Take yourselves off, bag and baggage, or it will be the worse for you.'

‘A fine Christian welcome, madam,' drawled the leader of the horsemen. ‘But I think not. I have business here - and here I shall remain until it is finished to my satisfaction.'

‘What business?' Mother Ursula demanded. ‘This land belongs to the church. You have no right here.'

The man's face darkened. ‘His Majesty is head of the church now,' he snarled. ‘And as his representative I have every right.' He fumbled in his pouch and produced a scroll, which he flung at her feet, forcing her to bend to pick it up. Even from her vantage point in the dimness of the church porch, Jane could see the heavy seal at the bottom - and the expression of dismay on Mother Ursula's face as she read it.