Anna's Affliction

Anna's Affliction,  part 3                               by Abe

       One of the first two bullets carved a furrow across the buttocks of the fucker.  The other barely missed the fuckee and buried itself in the heavy wooden table.  As Robert tried to restrain the gunman,  the shooter, with the strength of a madman, twisted and pushed the muzzle against Robert's breastbone and pulled the trigger.  Robert died instantly.

       Two spectators, former fuckers, wrestled the killer to the floor and held him, face down, with his arm twisted behind his back.  I picked up the revolver and pointed it at his head.  An until now passive spectator cried out, “Call the bobbies!  It's murder.  With all these witnesses, we'll see the monster hang.”

       “Calm down and think,” I ordered.  Pressing the muzzle to the prone man's temple, I said, “Who are you?”

       He explained that he was Lord H., and he called out to 129, “Patricia, I disown you.  You have dishonored our family.  I'm sorry my shots missed you.”

       “How did you know she was here?” I asked.  A private investigator had followed her and reported on her location.  “Where is the investigator now?”  He had been sent away, his job finished.  “How did you get here?”  By carriage.  I  took a moment to go to a front window and peep between the drapes.  The lord's carriage was waiting at the kerb, illuminated by the light from the restaurant.  A driver and two footmen stood smoking.

       “Well, gentlemen,” I said, addressing the room in general, “which of you is prepared to testify in open court, with the press present, as to what you were doing  when the shot's were fired?”  The men just sort of shuffled and said nothing.  “Who is prepared to help me dispose of  the body, if I were to execute Lord H. right now?”  Again there was silence.  While they held the killer down, I removed the contents of Robert's pockets.   If he simply disappeared, I would not legally be a widow and could not access our assets.  I did not want the police coming to The Caligula Club, so  I needed to come up with a plan.

       Meanwhile,  Sarah had swiftly brought clean towels and was helping 117 to stop the bleeding of his bum.  The wound was nothing a surgeon couldn't easily sew up, but it would be a while before 117 would enjoy sitting down.  Member 129 got up off the table and went to get her clothes.

       “Lord H.,” I said, “it looks as if you might get away with murder.”

       “It was self-defense,” he replied.

       “First degree murder, a killing during the commission of a felony, to wit, the attempted murder of your daughter.  She can testify to that, as can I and others here.”  Lord H. seemed deflated, recognizing his defeat.  “I'm prepared to let you go, if you will agree to  cooperate.”  I stepped back and lowered the revolver to my side.  “Let him stand up,” I said.

       The helpful members let Lord H. regain his feet.  “First of all, I want to see some remorse for trying to kill one of our members.  If you mean to disown your daughter, you will have to compensate her,  perhaps a large cash payment.  However, if you are lucky, she may forgive you and agree to return to the home of a murderer.  Will you ask her forgiveness?”  Lord H. grumbled an affirmative.   “Louder, please, so she can hear you.  Tell her  you will not disown her, and you still love her as your daughter.”  He complied with my request. “Second, you will have to dispose of the consequences of your rash action.  I will tell you how.  Now, sit down and keep still.”

       We got Robert into one of his overcoats and left in a pocket some of his business cards, the ones which said he was a dealer in fine imported lace and giving his address as the house in Shepherd's Bush.    129, Patricia, emerged, once again dressed as a lady.  She consented to  return home with her father, if he would never mention her behavior here nor interfere with her further attendance at the club.  “After all, Father, it is better I should come here discretely rather than go about seducing the sons of your friends.  And I will refrain from mentioning that you are a murderer.”

       We got Robert's body down the back stairs and left it near the back  door of the restaurant  kitchen. “Lord H.,” I instructed, you will  have your driver take the carriage around back and tell your footmen to carry Robert to your carriage, as if he is drunk.  You will convey him to Shepherd's Bush and deposit him somewhere out of sight where he will be found tomorrow.  Make it look like an armed robbery.  I'll keep your revolver.”

       The next day, there was a short item in The Times: “The body of Robert Harriman  was found in a mews not far from his home in Shepherd's Bush.  He was a dealer in fine imported lace.  Police speculate that he was shot in the course of a robbery.”  I immediately cut out the item and went to the offices of Wilkes and Wilkes.  I did not want the police worrying about my whereabouts and discovering The Caligula Club.  I needed a solicitor to oversee my financial affairs.  I was, after all, a woman and a minor.  I could not sign a legal contract, not even to provide for my husband's burial.  Then there was the question of  the payments from my trust and access to Robert's assets.

       “As a minor,  you must have a guardian,” advised the elder Wilkes.  “The obvious one, since you no longer have a husband, is your uncle, Wilbur.”

       “Never!” I shouted.  “He sexually abused me.”  I would never have spoken like that, used the word 'sexual', before my reading and experience with the depravity of  The Club.  “I am entirely able to handle my own affairs, but for the limitation of being legally a child.  I want access to my late husband's bank accounts.”

       “If he has no male heirs,  you are entitled to a third of his estate.”

       I replied, “His estate is the result of my money.  He had long since given up working for a living.  His only relative is his mother, who should be in prison, if there is justice in London.  I have made deposits to his account, but the bank manager would not let me make withdrawals.”

       “Of course not,” said the solicitor, “Legally what was yours was his, but he was the head of the family and responsible for financial affairs.  That's the law.  Your trust fund from your father is intact.  The simplest solution to your problems would be to marry again, but it is possible that we could get a judicial ruling to declare you an emancipated daughter.  Most likely, we will have to make a settlement with his mother, after which you could inherit the remainder of his assets.”

       “Then,” I inquired, “I would be able to legally write a cheque or sign a lease?  I would be the equal of a man?”

       “Yes,” he said as he nodded his head slowly, “I believe so.  It may take time and money to achieve, but the law tends to regard a widow as being more responsible than an unmarried minor.  I will have to find a sympathetic judge.”  I told him to proceed.

       While that all worked out, I had the revenue from The Club to live on,  but I had a real problem, having lost Robert's services as a  procurer of virgins.  It wasn't simply a matter of  satisfying 101; there were several other members who came each Saturday to watch or take sloppy seconds with the deflowered virgin.   I needed a source.  I thought about advertising for a maid and then subverting her, as I had with Sarah.  I decided that would be too risky, as there would be a paper trail and who knows who would know where she had been.  I could not keep the used virgins with me, as I had Ruby, and the deflowered victim might go to the police.   I resolved that I would have to experiment.

       I carried the revolver, there were three bullets left, in a pocket in my voluminous skirts and took a cab to the East End.  In late afternoon, there were many children and adults crowding the streets,  buying, selling, going places, idly playing.  I selected a girl who was  trying to sell a handkerchief, almost certainly stolen.  I held out a pound and asked her if she would allow a man to fuck her for a   pound.  She screamed and ran away as a dozen people stared at me.   

       Next I approached a pair of young men, louts who lounged against a wall, smoking.  I offered them a pound if they would bring me a  girl.  The larger, dirtier  one, a head taller than I, said  of course he could do that.  What sort of girl did I want?  Pretty, I said, and a virgin, preferably with well developed boobs.  He told me to follow him.   We went a block or so and then entered a dimly lighted cellar. 

“Give me all your money,” he said.

       “Give me the girl, and I will give you the pound,” I said bravely.  

       In response, he pulled a knife and  said, “Give me all your money, now!”   While the other lout guarded the door, the big one waved the knife before my face and reached out, grabbing the neckline of my bodice and pulling me toward him.  “If you have enough money, maybe I won't fuck you so hard before I let you go.”

       “Let go of me,” I said through clenched teeth, as I reached into my pocket.  He yanked on my bodice, and as I heard it tearing it took no real courage on my part to pull the trigger.  The report of the shot was especially loud in that confined space.  My assailant staggered and fell to the floor, clutching his crotch and groaning.  The second lout bolted for the street.  I departed and hurried westward until I could hail a cab.  I had learned a lesson about venturing into the poorer areas of town without a male escort.  I wondered if  I might enlist the help of Mrs. Harriman at The Broken Lance, but I thought better of it, as Mr. Wilkes said that she was wanting more of Robert's estate and could not be trusted to be my friend.

       On Saturday morning, as I worried about not having a virgin for the club members to abuse, the bell rang downstairs.  I went down to the vestibule and was surprised to see Lord H.  He smiled at me and said, “I hope I am not unwelcome.  My daughter assures me that you are unlikely to bear a grudge.”

       “Being a widow has been an inconvenience,” I said, smiling back at him, “but  I suppose, as a good Christian, I should forgive my husband's murderer.  What can I do for you, Lord H.?”

       He shifted his weight from foot to foot for several seconds and then replied, “I  wish to become a member of your club.”  I looked past him and saw in his carriage his daughter, Patricia, member 129.

       “You know the rules?” I said.  He assured me he understood, the need for a mask and prepayment and so forth.  “What particular desires can we satisfy?”

       “At my age,” he said, “I can no longer perform very well when it comes to servicing the fair sex, but I would like to watch, while others fuck 'em.”

       “Of course,” I replied, “I have the power to arrange such entertainment for you, but  I have small problem which perhaps you would like to assist me with.”  He nodded and smiled.  “Since you have deprived me of my husband, I have been deprived of his services.  Would you be able to replace him in certain respects?  That would only be fair, don't you agree?”

       Lord H. smiled and nodded.  “Of course, Mrs. Harriman, if  I can...  but, uh, as I said, I'm no longer the man I used to be, in the bedroom.”  He seemed to visibly slump.

       I smiled back and said, “Lord H., my husband was no great performer in the bedroom.  His essential function was to provide each week a virgin, which certain members of  club would thrash and deflower while others watched.”

       “Oh, I should like to watch that.  Maybe even wield a cane on a luscious little bottom?” he replied, once again smiling.

       “I will admit you to The Caligula Club on one condition; you will   provide one virgin each week, and take her back after she is no longer a virgin.”  Thus he became member 134, and he promised to deliver that evening.

       His carriage pulled up after dark and three people alighted:  134, 129, both masked of course, and a  pretty young thing dressed in a maid's uniform.  I didn't ask, but it occurred to me that, with his various houses and estates, in town or in the country, there must be hundreds of servants and tenant farmers who would sell their daughters to the lord.  Seldom would kidnapping be needed, though he surely had the means to arrange a kidnapping.  My moral sense was much relieved, to think that the victim du jour was legitimately  procured.

       129, elegantly dressed, watched in a detached way as 101 and 102 and others enthusiastically stripped off the girl's clothing and fixed her into the pillory.  She said nothing, though she blushed as her chemise was lifted over her ample bosom.  She was a well rounded wench, with a big black bush between her thighs.  As usual, she was told to count the strokes, and as several members, including 134, took turns with the cane or the tawse, she had to count to 60.  At that point, I compassionately put a stop to the beating.  The fucking followed which evoked more screams and protests than the cane had produced, probably because she had never been fucked before, while the caning was more familiar.

       I had not noticed, but 129 and Sarah had slipped away, and 129 reappeared naked, but for her stockings.  She asked to be placed in the  pillory and fucked by anyone who could get it up, while her father, anonymous to the other members, was required to watch his daughter degraded, fucked like a bitch from behind.

       As the maid vacated the pillory, she was kept handy by hanging her from her wrists from the ceiling.  One of the members, bored perhaps by the spectacle of 129 gasping and groaning as her cunt was vigorously stuffed, amused himself by seeing how much he could squeeze the maid's boobs or pinch her nipples before she would lose control and scream incessantly.  When he tired of that, he lit one match after another and burned off her pubic hair.  When at last 129 was sated and asked to be released, the bored one nominated the maid for a ride on the horse.  Even 129 approved the nomination, and the poor maid, who could hardly have expected such treatment, even if she had come to the club voluntarily, was placed astride the rocking horse with a wooden cock embedded in her cunt.  I'm sure that until that point she had not enjoyed her ordeal, but as the members rocked the horse and her cunt was  ravished more persistently than any man's cock could do she began to warm up to the game.  Her nipples became erect and there was a blush across her chest as, her boobs bobbing, she rode the rocking horse.  Slurping sounds came from her cunt and her juices wet the saddle.  She stopped pleading for mercy and instead sighed with passion, ultimately howling like wolf and going limp.  They lifted her off the horse, her gaping cunt clearly visible since her nether hairs were mostly gone, and laid her out on the table, which still showed the effects of the bullet.  Pansy, without being told, went down between the maid's parted thighs and applied her tongue to the moaning  victim.  Men toyed with the tits as the maid writhed in ecstasy.

       When the evening's entertainment was over, 134 and his daughter dressed the ravished maid and took her home in the carriage. While her bottom may have hurt when she sat, she seemed satisfied with the outcome of the evening.

       The next Saturday, Lord H. appeared with yet another virgin, a dirty, barefoot girl who looked as it she had never before left the farm.   129 arrived with the maid, the previous week's victim.  The maid, 129 said, hoped she might ride the horse again, and of course we all helped her realize her wish.  I could not help reflecting on the disparity between the moral  commandments of the middle classes and the actual morality of the upper and lower classes.  Back in Shepherd's Bush every young wife would submit, as a matter of wifely duty, to her husband's attentions, but not one would admit, if anyone ever asked, to liking the procreative process, and generally husbands and wives slept in separate rooms.  Even her husband would not be permitted to see her naked.  The cliché was to close your eyes and think of England.    Certainly spanking, caning, humiliation, etc. were punishments, not to be enjoyed.

       Yet there in the club was 129, indulged with every material thing, well educated, well churched,  but she found satisfaction, found an identity, by behaving like her idea of how a whore would act.  She seemed to genuinely enjoy being fucked, which is, I suppose, no more remarkable than my liking to squeeze my “willie”,  and she enjoyed flaunting the dictates of morality, displaying her dissolution before strangers.  The former virgins from the lower classes, Sarah, Ruby, Lord H.'s maid, unashamedly enjoyed sexual activity which would be denounced as evil by any “right thinking Christian.”  I could see that they enjoyed having their birth canal stuffed with throbbing meat, or a reasonable facsimile, but how could they enjoy being caned or otherwise subjected to pain and humility?  Would the maid, without having been morally destroyed by pain, have allowed herself to be fucked for the fun of it?  Was she raised with no sense of sexual restraint, or did such treatment so effectively undo years of moral training that she could, without shame or guilt, ask to ride the rocking horse?   I did not understand, but I accepted the evidence.

       The barefoot girl, who I supposed was a daughter of one of the lord's tenants, was subjected to intense punishment, 80 strokes of the cane, having her pubic hair plucked out as one might pluck feathers from a goose,  having her boobs crushed and pricked with needles, having her nipples sucked into vials as Uncle Arthur had tortured my willie, and then she was fucked in the pillory, both in the cunt and in the arse.  If pain and humiliation will overcome conventional morality, that girl should have become devoid of any virtue, yet, even with the ultimate ride on the horse, she got no pleasure from her experience.  I have no idea what happened when she was returned to her father, but I suspect  that she would never enjoy intimacy with a man.  This was, I recall, the  first time I had feelings of guilt about my conducting the activities of the club.

       101 and the other men were pleased that 134  provided a virgin every week at no cost to them and that 129 was happy to be fucked by anyone.  My “mares” were sent away, except for Sarah, Pansy, Ruby, and Hermione, each with her role in the family.

       Hermione, in particular,  competed with the male members in devising ever more unusual punishments for the victims brought in by 134.  For example, there was a slender blonde, older than most of the virgins, which Lord H. brought one Saturday.  She seemed more refined, of higher social class, than the usual sacrificial cunts; she might well have been some distant relative of Lord H.  We were told that she had serious sins to repent; no punishment would be too extreme.  Perhaps she agreed, for she passively did as she was told, as if she had no choice, as if protest would be futile,  which was true.   She had recently bathed and smelled of perfume.  When she was disrobed, she blushed and tried to cover her private parts with her hands.  Hermione, with a persuasive cane, forced the blonde walk around to each member, 129 included, and to strike a pose, to spread her lower lips with her fingers, to pull on her own nipples.  Tears streamed down her cheeks, as she was so humiliated and debased.  She was then made to crawl on hands and knees and to suck on the cock of each member who presented his.   Finally, she rebelled and tearfully refused to do that any more.  Hermione skillfully applied a long-tailed whip, cracking it so that the tip drew blood from the blonde's  protruding lower cheeks.  The blonde reluctantly resumed her sucking.  129, who was still dressed, lifted her skirts and demanded that the blonde “eat cunt”, which she did, sobbing between slurps.

       101 became impatient and said it was time to put the slut in the pillory and let him wield the cane.  It was done, and the pale skin of the blonde's arse was soon striped with pink welts.  While the blonde was still immobilized but before she was deflowered, Hermione applied  steamy jars to the pretty tits, scalding them and sucking them into each jar, as my “willie” had been tortured in Brighton.  She also took a turnip and stuffed it in the victim's arsehole until only the greens hung out, like a pony's tail.  Then 101 was allowed to mount her like a dog and deflower the miserable blonde, who bled as proof of her former virtue.  Two others had their way with her.  With no mercy, the consensus of the members present was that it was time for the horse.  With the turnip still in place,  the blonde rode the horse screaming in pain or distress.  She was not only deflowered, she was reamed and stretched until her cunt gaped as if she had delivered a baby.

       129 said it was time for herself  to be satisfied, and she chose to be fucked while lying on the table, as the blonde, still horsed, looked on.  While 129 got dressed, 134 declared that he was unwilling to remove the blonde, that she must be confined here until next Saturday, and Hermione must see to it  that she changed her ways.  There would be a generous payment if we  broke her will.  I have no idea why 134 should so single her out, but money talks, and Hermione looked forward to the task.

       Hermione took it as a personal challenge, devoting her waking hours to making the blonde, now addressed as Bitch, perform acts she would never have dreamed of before The Caligula Club.  Bitch lived naked  with her hands and elbows bound behind her back and her boobs, like red apples, sucked into the jars.  Thus encumbered, Bitch had to sleep on one side or the other on the hard floor in a chilly room.  She had to eat by sucking and licking her food and water from a bowl, like a bitch.  Often she was made to stand on one leg, the other foot raised and resting on the high back of a chair, or she was made to straddle a horizontal bar or to shuffle along on her knees.  The turnip in her arse caused some discomfort, especially when she had to shit, and each time the bitch expelled the turnip, Hermione would insert a larger one.  When ever so ordered, Bitch had to lick the cunt of  one of us, and Hermione even talked me into letting Bitch suck my “willie”, which I found so pleasant that I ordered her to do it five or six times a day.  Hermione plucked the bitch's cunt clean of hair and dictated that she should submit several times a day to being caned and to having Pansy “eat”  Bitch's cunt while bitch stood with her legs apart.  At first, it took several strokes of the cane to persuade the bitch to stand still  while Pansy worked between her legs.  Bitch did not enjoy that, but Pansy did.  However, after three days of such discipline,  Bitch had been trained to the point that, when commanded and caned with but one stroke, she would present herself for Pansy's attention.   After that single stroke, at the juncture of thighs and buttocks, Bitch would be wet and ready.   By the fifth day, Bitch would respond in seconds, writhing with passion as Pansy sucked her willie, and the ritual was repeated several times a day.  As a reward, her hands were no longer bound, and her swollen boobs were released from the suction of the jars.  However, Hermione then pierced the blonde's nipples for ear rings.

       When the members assembled for the Saturday night deflowering, 134 had brought another maid, a Catholic Irish girl who was clearly reluctant to participate in the festivities.   By general agreement, Hermione  served as Mistress of Ceremonies. “Are you a virgin?” she asked the maid.  The maid assured us that she was, and she did not want to change that.  “Girl, God made Eve to be submissive to Adam and to be fruitful and multiply.  If you are old enough to bleed, you are old enough to breed.  A cunt is a terrible thing to waste.   Tonight you will find out what it is for.”  The maid visibly shivered with fear.  “Now, girl, take off your clothes.”

       When the maid was reluctant, several members assisted in stripping her.  She stood there,  without a stitch on, quietly crying.  They tied her hands to the hook in the ceiling and made her stand with her feet on wooden boxes, so she was helpless, her legs spread, displayed front and back for all to see.  “Now, girl, you can see what happens to girls who do not do what they are told.”

       Hermione went into another room and returned leading the bitch with a leash and collar.  The blonde had her nose painted black and had black spots painted on her limbs and body.  The turnip greens were covered by a sleeve of cloth, like a dog tail, so the overall effect was that of a coach dog.  Hermione  pointed at the maid's exposed crotch and Bitch went, on hands and knees, to the virgin and, growling like a dog, she began licking the girl's cunt.  The virgin drew her hips back and lost her balance, falling off her boxes so she was hanging from her wrists with her toes inches from the floor.  She managed to regain her support, with a foot on each box, but that again exposed her  femininity to Bitch's attention.  Hermione gave Bitch a pair of tweezers, and Bitch, sitting on the floor with her own naked cunt visible to the girl, plucked the virgin's pubic hair.  It took some time, but the spectators, 129 included, patiently watched, enjoying the look of pain or terror on the maid's face.  That done,  134 called, “Heel”, and the bitch crawled to him and sat on her haunches by his knee.

       101 was impatient, for he was paying extra for the privilege, and suggested it was time for the virgin sacrifice.  The girl was detached from the overhead hook and, struggling, forced to kneel with her head and hands locked in the pillory.  101 methodically caned the virgin's backside, making her count the strokes, while Hermione, wearing heavy gloves, rubbed stinging nettles against the hanging tits, in spite of  the girls screams and protests.  There was a dramatic moment, with the sobbing girl's reddened tits, reddened arse, and bald labia exposed for examination.  Then,  with a single thrust, she was a virgin no more.  101 and two others left their seed inside her, and then she was placed astride the horse, which was not yet set to rocking.

       The girl on the horse had to sit and watch, aghast, as Bitch was fucked, doggy style, by two men and was made to ride the cock of a member who lay on his back on the floor.  The finale, so to speak, was when 129 lay on the floor, her skirts raised, and Bitch licked until 129 was spent, to the applause of the spectators.  Bitch went to again sit on her heels next to 134, and 129 regained her composure, lowered her skirts, and sat primly to one side.

       There remained the task of teaching the maid to ride.  Gently, Hermione began to rock the horse.  The  upright peg in the girl's vagina was not very large and it was well lubricated with cum, so the ride was not painful.  Slowly, the horse rocked more and faster, and the girl held its neck as mixed liquids drained from her cunt and wet the saddle and her inner thighs.  Many in the audience clapped in synchrony with the horse's motions, and there was general applause when the incessant stimulation finally achieved its purpose.  The girl threw her head back and called out, “God!  Jesus and Mary, Oh, AHH!”  Hermione smiled.

       The maid was lifted from the horse and allowed to dress.  134 took her by the hand and led her down the stairs toward the carriage.  129 took the leash and led Bitch, walking, down the stairs, still naked.  Clearly, she would have to walk naked to the coach and ride home shivering in her nakedness.

       Well, I suppose I have told you what you want to know.  Lord H. faithfully provided a virgin each Saturday, and another cunt, usually an ex-virgin, often the bitch, for Tuesdays and Thursdays.  The membership continued to grow, and 129 continued to offer herself to new members.  Hermione continued to perfect her torments,  to continuing praise from the members.  Picking up on my original thesis that men would pay to see violence against women, we added to the entertainment by staging wrestling matches between women who wore nothing but a coat of slippery oil and gladiatorial contests in which the female combatants were armed with non-lethal weapons, like whips or bunches of nettles.  When word got out about the training of the bitch,  from time to time a member would leave a woman – his wife?  his mistress? – to be trained by Hermione, and such trainees often returned as contestants.  Most importantly, the money poured in, and the membership grew.

       I should have known that, sooner or later, things would get out of hand.  Our rule of no blood was largely forgotten, especially since the virgins were expected to bleed (though some did not).  The staged combats between women, typically each with an ankle tied to her opponent's, gradually became more savage, with biting and scratching in addition to blows.  One whore was fucked so roughly that her arsehole bled.  The members loved it and shouted me down every time I tried to reduce the violence.

       Then on one well attended night member 171 and his wife, 172 attended, accompanied by a footman who carried a large box, almost the size of a coffin.  The footman seemed genuinely surprised to find himself among a crowd of masked men and women.  171 conferred with Hermione and then addressed the crowd.  “My wife has dishonored me, made me a laughingstock before my servants, who are all aware of her adultery.  Surely, she should be punished.  Will you all assist me?”  There was general agreement.  “Do you confess, wife, before these witnesses?”  172 nodded.  Swiftly, her clothes were removed, and she stood, naked, but for her mask, trying to cover her private parts with her hands.  The footman looked very uncomfortable.  The woman was treated like the virgin sacrifices, placed in the pillory and caned by several members, until her bottom was reticulated welts.  171 invited the spectators to fuck his wife.  “No one misses a slice off a cut loaf,” he said.  The wife was duly fucked by half a dozen men, and by 129, who used a dildo, and was then set astride the rocking horse with a rather large peg in her cunt.  She was made to ride the wooden cock until she was well spent, and her juices, mixed with the semen of her rapists, ran in rivulets down the saddle.

       While the adulteress sat, half conscious, impaled on the horse, 171 directed our attention to the footman.  “This cur fucked my wife!” he announced.  “Strip him.”  It was done, promptly, with half a dozen men  participating.  He was found to have a huge erection.  “It's not the first time you have seen my wife naked, is it?”  The footman replied that it was not his fault, that she had seduced him, but that excuse was not well received.  They tied his hands behind his back and Hermione tied a stout cord around the base of his penis and his scrotum.  They made him kneel on the floor, his penis still erect.

       171 himself tied cords tightly around his wife's nipples.  They lifted her off the horse and made her kneel on the floor, facing the footman.  His eyes seemed fixed on her gaping wet cunt.  They opened the big box and revealed that it contained a guillotine, not as big as those used to behead nobles but fully functional just the same.  A heavy steel blade could slide vertically in grooves in the uprights of the rectangular frame.  There was a kind of shelf, adjustable for height, with a slot into which the falling blade would fit.  The blade was lifted with a cord which had a wooden ball on the end.  171  grasped the ball and pulled, raising the blade to the top of the frame.  Hermione place a large potato on the shelf.  171 let go of the ball, and the blade dropped, neatly cleaving the potato.  At that point, perhaps only 171 knew what would happen next.  No one, certainly not me, tried to stop the drama.

       The guillotine was placed between the two sinners.  The cord raised the blade again, and the ball was put in the footman's mouth.  171 pulled the cords on his wife's nipples until they lay on the shelf of the machine,  and he secured the cords.  Murmurs went through the crowd, as every eye was fixed on distorted breasts, pulled into cone shapes as the woman tried to pull back.  “You like those tits, huh?  You liked to play with my wife's tits, didn't you?”  The footman, with the wooden ball in his mouth, kept his mouth shut and said nothing.  “As long as you keep the ball in your mouth, your whore's tits are safe.  Now, don't let go,” said 171, as he slashed a cane across the wretch's back.  The footman withstood countless blows without releasing the ball.  Then 171 took a hot poker from the fire and thrust it between the poor man's arse cheeks.  He screamed.  The ball flew in an arc as the  falling blade pulled on the cord.  Chunk!  The crowd sighed loudly as 171 tossed the severed nipples onto the fire.

       Ruby and Sarah attended to the wife, staunching the flow of blood and winding bandages around her chest, covering her nippleless     boobies.  The footman knelt there, sobbing.

       When 172 could do so, she was made to kneel with the ball in her   mouth.  171 pulled on the cord and secured the footman's cock and balls on the shelf of the machine.  “Well, dear wife, you loved the feel of that cock inside you, didn't you?” said 171.  172, of course, did not reply.  The now flaccid organ extended toward her, stretched by the cord.

       “Stop,”  I said.  “This had gone far enough.”  171 and the entranced audience ignored me.  171 heated the poker again and approached his adulterous wife.  Her terror showed in her eyes.  “Stop!” I repeated, but 171 thrust the hot poker between her arse cheeks, searing her lower lips.  She screamed.  Chunk!  Her lover was a eunuch.

       “Justice is done,” said 171 as he tossed the cock and balls on the fire.  All of us spectators were stunned.  Somehow what had seemed entertainment was now disgusting.  But it was too late to undo the violence.  171 and 172 and the sexless footman departed, leaving the bloody machine behind.  We never saw them again.