The boy nodded respectfully. He was pleased with an outcome that spared Lady Roslyn from the gallows. In his mind, this was a far better fate for a woman with whom had no quarrel.
***
The cell was large and open to the elements, one where exotic animals were sometimes housed when the traveling circuses roamed Wilhem’s realm. Tigers from the East, bears from the north, and strange cats from foreign lands would prowl restlessly inside a space too small to contain their mighty spirits. But there were no more exotic beasts to cage inside the cell than the beautiful daughter of an enemy Duke and her comely blonde maid. Erected just outside the dungeon proper, the iron-barred enclosure could be looked upon by those jailed inside the crude cells, while there was still plenty of space for an audience to gather and watch the proceedings play out.
The two women had been taken from their small dungeon cell, shackled with chains, their faces wide-eyed and roused. Celia was now strapped into a punishment wheel, her arms and legs stretched wide so that her entire body lay open to the elements and the eyes of voyeurs, vulnerable to the whips that would fillet her tender skin. She moved into the contraption resigned to another horrific fate, though she exhibited signs of mortal terror when the collar that ringed her neck was bolted to the heavy wooden crosspiece. Her mouth was stuffed with rags and from the clitoral ring a heavy weight had been fixed.
The jailer fingered her between her legs, until the blonde’s body heaved an erotic sigh, her bosom expanding, breasts thrust out in want. The man stood back, pleased.
“You’ll suffer pretty, my sweet one,” he said in a terrible whisper, as he gave her cheek a slight but warning slap.
The crowd began to gather once the word of this punishment became public. Many were disappointed that there would not be an execution this day, but most were just as willing to watch these fair maids feel the fiery wrath for their traitorous deeds. Watching from specially erected platform seats were the Duke and Duchess. Cyrus shunned the empty one beside the two, preferring to stand nearby, his feet planted in the ground, his arms crossed over his chest. From time to time, as the theatre unfolded like a sacrament, he broke his stance and roamed to one side or the other, although his interest in the proceedings wavered little.
Inside the cage, firmly clutched from behind by another of the jailers, was the Lady Roslyn. She’d been stripped of her clothes, and her nose and clitoral rings shined to a glossy brilliance. Her face had been painted white, her eyes circled with black, and her lips and cheeks rouged with red. The same bright red color highlighted her erect nipples and her pussy lips below. The clownish look poked fun at her noble lineage and roused the gathering audience who anticipated a wild spectacle to whet their lurid appetites.
The noble Roslyn would have to wait for her punishment, while the attention of the crowd and the jailers was first drawn to Celia. Once the girl was firmly fixed on the wooden struts, her jailer began to turn the wheel, slowly, with careful deliberation, cackling a bit as he did and whispering more lewd comments that only the girl could hear. She remained passive, breathing deeply, chest heaving and her body venting a lust that no one missed. Perspiration made her skin glow, and if you looked carefully between her legs, one could see her sex lips glisten with her female juices. The slow wheel continued to move, until Celia was up-side-down, her blond hair dangling toward the ground, the ends skimming the dirt. The weight on her clitoris shifted as her body shifted positions, making that ponderous throbbing feeling change direction and become more acute—although it was difficult to gauge her response with her facial features oddly contorted. For a time, the crowd watched her struggle to adapt. And perhaps she did, or perhaps she merely learned to accept the pain and discomfort. Before she had a chance to completely settle, however, the jailer laid on his whip, a thin bull hide braid with a fluffed end that could bite flesh and draw blood. That end repeatedly snapped against the girl’s white skin, so it took but a few minutes before the evidence of the man’s labors appeared on her flesh in small red welts. All the while the girl was silent but for a few deep-throated grunts, and yet, it was clear to see that the girl was in agony, struggling as if she could actually loosen her bonds. Once satisfied with his work, the jailer stepped back and viewed the results, finally smiling with approval. With the girl still head down, feet stretched to the sky, the jailer left her positioned so, and turned his attention to the noble lady who would bear the brunt of the day’s exhibition in torture.
Pushed forward with a rude shove by the second jailer, Lady Roslyn stumbled to the ground.
“Make her crawl!” Lady Josephine shouted from the sidelines. “I so love it when she crawls!”
And so Roslyn crawled on hands and knees to the center of a low dais, where she was pulled to her feet and two chains were attached to her rings, one through her nose ring, and the other ring that thread her sex bud. Her clownish face looked sullen and scared, eyes large and glaring, her lips bitten and moist. In a final insult, her arms were pulled behind her, hands attached to elbows, so her chest was thrust out, inviting the attention of the crowd and the jailers with a job to do.
To her left and her right, in front and back, four men stood with whips. At the start, they took turns with the frightened beauty, laying on their cuts with measured precision, in a way not difficult for the girl to take in. But after ten minutes of this erratic torture, they started in in pairs, laying the cuts in tandem, then three whips, then all four at once came thundering forward until Roslyn was jerked in every direction like a crazy puppet with a demented puppet-master pulling her strings. Every jerk tugged at her rings, every one a torture of its own, every one bringing more desperate tears to the noble Roslyn’s eyes, until her clown’s face became streaked with black and red and white, and the salty paint dripped on to her breasts and stained the skin.
“Please have mercy! Oh, please!” she finally cried, after taking the abuse for many minutes—until she could no longer be silent.
“Mercy never!” Lady Josephine mumbled to herself.
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” Roslyn wailed, and her head fell back only to be jerked upright by a tug on her nose ring. She thought she was about to die!
The girl cried often enough for Lady Josephine to suddenly rise and halt the exhibition.
“Gag her!” she ordered angrily. She waited until her order was obeyed, then she sat back down.
In the fashion of Celia’s gag, a wad of dirty rags had been stuffed into Roslyn’s mouth and down her throat. She choked at first, then finally adjusted to this next horror.
Sobbing through the rest of the punishment, she jerked with every brutal lash that landed. Her breasts and belly were cruelly stripped, long welts rose across her shoulders, and embedded in the flesh of her ass cheeks were streaks deep enough to open the skin. She had little strength left to keep her upright, though she knew what would happen should she have collapsed to the ground.
“Enough!” This was Cyrus halting the punishment this time. Though his voice moved through the gathering with authority, effectively stopping the torture of the traitor, Roslyn heard nothing at the moment he spoke. Her mind had fled elsewhere into a dream, the terror gone, leaving only the endless physical pain from the whips. The sudden cessation of those whips made her start and finally come back to the present, though she dared not open her eyes.
Lady Josephine fanned herself, fuming, restless for more, but willing to submit to her black lover’s decree. “Put her in the dankest cell you have, jailer!” she ordered. “And Cyrus,” she looked to the man, “when the caravan arrives let them know we have some fair flesh to sell them. And I want a good price!” She stood up, proud and haughty as ever.
“Indeed, milady.” Cyrus bowed, a wry smile on his dark lips.
The lady sighed smugly and left on the arm of her much more subdued husband. The Duke, while finding it necessary to deal with an apparently traitorous female, could only think of how he’d miss Lady Roslyn’s warm body and the succulent sheath of her ripe quim.
***
Lady Roslyn and her maid huddled in the corner of the tiny cell; the space so squat that they could not stand up and they could barely stretch their legs. At least there was some comfort in each other’s arms. And the salve an old woman handed them through the bars was enough to sooth Roslyn’s deepest wounds.
Pitch black in the cellar spaces, it was quite a shock when late in the night, a glaring light suddenly struck their sleepy faces—although they had not yet slept a wink. Their eyes shot open and their hands went up to protect them from the glare.
The two heard the whispering voices of men whose roving eyes inspected them thoroughly. The pair could not see any faces with such a bright blinding light covering up the shrouding darkness. Just as abruptly as it appeared, the light withdrew and so did the men.
“I think I heard one say, she’s the one,” Celia whispered to her mistress when they were gone.
“I heard nothing at all like that.”
“Do you suppose that Cyrus might be buying you for himself?”
“Girl, I have no clue,” Roslyn answered wearily.
“But maybe there is hope.”
“Maybe.”
Celia held her tighter for comfort. Her own trial that day had been simple. Except for a brief headache when the wheel turned her back upright, there had been little pain. The whip for all its threat had been lightly laid on compared to other whippings she had endured. Not that Celia desired the rough whipping that Roslyn suffered, it would have certainly been more arousing to a girl who fed on such things—even when Roslyn assured her maid that there were no sexual feelings to be enjoyed while she was being so viciously tortured.
Chapter Seventeen
Purchased
Lady Roslyn and her maid limply glided toward the auction block that had been set up in the village square. Again a crowd had gathered, again Roslyn was displayed naked for the prurient interest of a clamoring throng. Two days since the whipping, her body had recovered some, and for the auction, she had been bathed, the filth from the cell washed away and her wounds tended. Her body had been rubbed with oils so that her white skin gleamed with a pearly hue. No clownish paint this time; her face, while sullen, was still filled with youthful beauty, and her lustrous auburn tresses, now freshly washed, shone like fire in the morning sun.
Two posts with a long high bar between them had been installed on the platform. The cedar scent of the fresh cut wood sent Roslyn back to her home, the day she and her father had roamed the forests with the woodsmen, cutting trees for a fine new table for Ledo’s great hall. As quick as the sweet memory returned, it fled with the jailer jerking her listless body into place beneath the overhead bar and fixing her wrists into dangling shackles. With Celia likewise tethered, the two were ready for inspection.
Some slave sales can be done in private, when there are few to bid on the offered wares. This was what Cyrus intended; the buyer he planned on was ready to make his bid. However, once news of this particular sale became public, there were more buyers coming out of nowhere to vie for the two girls. They were to be sold as a pair—a stipulation Lady Josephine insisted on—for reasons no one quite knew. One suspected that she simply want them gone.
“You defeat your purpose if you sell to a buyer other than one from the caravan,” Cyrus had warned the Duchess.
“I don’t suspect these others will have the coin they do. Or will they?” she asked.
“I have no idea. Sometimes you’d be surprised.”
“Perhaps. But we’ll see to it that the right buyer makes the purchase. I do love spectacle, and I simply wanted one last opportunity to cast my eyes on that horrible face and that ugly red hair. One last time to enjoy the little bitch’s woe.”
“You find her ugly?” Cyrus asked.
“Oh, indeed. Puny too.” She practically spit.
“Ah! Then you have different eyes than mine, madam.”
“Perhaps, you wish to purchase her?” Lady Josephine wondered.
“Ack! I have no use for a slave. I prefer my women willing.”
The Duchess smiled. “Then perhaps when this unpleasant business is over, we can get back to ours,” a glimmer of lust in her eye.
“And I would love to, milady,” Cyrus bowed. “But I will be traveling with the caravan for a time, and I must head south.”
The Lady frowned unhappily, and sidled up to the man, taking his arm, “Oh, my love, I hoped that you would stay longer.”
Cyrus patted the back of her hand and smiled deferentially, “Perhaps I will return soon.”
The gavel came down suddenly and the auctioneer began to speak, his voice rising above the crowd, silencing it to no more than murmurs and an occasional sneeze.
Roslyn stood, her head held with regal though submissive grace, while a string of potential buyers marched up on the platform and began to inspect her body. Several were run off—just horny men who wanted to feel the soft skin of a young woman. Other buyers had their way with her. Roslyn squirmed as her privates were felt up, as fingers moved between her legs and her insides were fondled, front and back. She squirmed too much—enough to bring the jeers of the crowd. But she could not help herself.
A man behind her whispered. “It will be over soon, milady…” the voice a dark and mysterious reminder of a previous dream. She nearly lost herself inside it, and was brought back only when her nipple was yanked and the next buyer demanded her attention.
After thoroughly examining the prize, the buyers moved on to Celia who garnered as much attention. Then there were murmurs in the crowd and bids began. Within seconds most of the buyers were topped by bids too high for them to counter and there were just two merchants from the caravan vying for the women, both concealed by the crowd so that neither Roslyn nor her current owners could see exactly who was making the purchase.
“Bring the buyers forward. We’ll see them privately and complete this sale,” Lady Josephine finally said, on conferring with her husband. She fled the scene quickly and the prisoners were led back to the castle’s dungeon.
Early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking over the Eastern horizon, Roslyn and her maid were pulled from the dungeon and shoved into barred cages sitting atop two ox carts. Each was given a cloak to cover their nakedness, then the carts were taken to the caravan of merchants where they joined in the long procession. Their life under Duke Wilhem’s rule ended that day.
They saw nothing more of The Duke and Josephine, although Cyrus did stop by, eyeing the captives with thoughtful consideration. He reached into Roslyn’s cage and stroked her cheek, although she immediately pulled away.
“Someday, you will thank me,” he said, his voice as soothing as his touch.
Still, Roslyn recoiled; it was clear that her heart had hardened toward the black man. She glared at him briefly, then turned away for her eyes were burning with tears.
***
Miles past slowly as the ponderous caravan of carts and horsemen made its way toward its next destination. Meanwhile, Roslyn jerked this way and that inside her barred cell. Her entire body ached to stretch out, for a bit of freedom to use her limbs. By then, her mind was numb and her heart was unable to feel a thing. The fear that she would never again enjoy the luxury of a downy bed, or a meadow in a springtime morning, or the kindness of a man who loved her, left her deadened as the stark trees in the winter sky overhead. Only when she heard Celia sob—dear Celia, who had tried so hard to make the best of her wretched fate—did Roslyn feel some tremor crack the icy barrier to her heart. But with the pain being more than she could bear, her heart chilled again as the caravan took her from one terror toward another unknown one.
Finally, when the day was half spent, the company stopped for rest and refreshment; Roslyn and Celia were freed from the cages and escorted by a guard into the woods, where they could relieve themselves.
“Bring them here!” a strong voice called to their escort.
“Ah! Yer new master calls,” their attendant said, and he ch
anged his course, veering away from the cages and delivering them into a clearing where a number of men were dining on their midday meal. Something familiar about these men made Roslyn awaken with some interest. Then there was the man who summoned them, sitting on a rock while eating bread and cheese, his back initially to them so the man’s identity remained clouded in mystery until he finally turned around.
At once, Roslyn’s cold heart leapt with unchecked joy, then her legs weakened and she grabbed Celia for support.
“General Drago!” her voice barely a whisper, though its intensity held all enthralled.
“Am I so awesome a sight?” The man lifted himself from the rock and walked her way, smug, satisfied, almost smiling as he looked on the Lady Roslyn once again. “My, you are a mess.” In a repeat of their first meeting, he lifted her hair to inspect the beautiful color, which was once again grimy from prison filth. He touched the ring threading through her nose and she jumped. “I prefer a collar about a woman’s throat; this will have to go.”
A small kindness that would be to remove the wretched thing, she thought.
“Am I to assume that you have purchased me—and my Celia?”
“Yes, you can assume as much. You can also assume that I will never again be so cavalier with my property. I let you slip from my hands once. I will not do so again.” Although she tightly clutched the heavy cloak, Drago insisted on opening it to inspect her body, and with that display, she blushed red and closed her eyes in shame. Drago noted her lovely body, reminding himself of how he’d enjoyed the young lady months ago—even the self-conscious blush was beautiful. Finally, his eyes rested on the nether ring. “I suppose it will hurt if tugged?” he asked, giving the thing a sharp yank.
“Ouch!”
“Apt answer,” he smiled. “I might just keep the piercing so I have a ready way to torture you.”
Damsel Page 17