The Devil's Surrogate Page 11

  Sarah started to pray, but the words became a jumble in her head and the dagger-spasms now wracking her calves and shoulders made any hope of recovering her powers of concentration quite forlorn. Poised almost on tiptoe for several minutes after Ross left her, she soon realised that maintaining this position for long would be impossible. And so, reluctantly, she allowed her weight to slowly subside until the projecting dildo was fully buried inside her, the horizontal support pressing up between the lips of her sex.

  It was far from comfortable, but at least she was now able to lift her legs and move her feet about in an effort to ease her tortured muscles, although even that small amount of movement resulted in all sorts of unwanted and shameful pulsing sensations. Gagged again, she could not protest, and despite knowing that Ross's return would simply herald another round of painful humiliation, she found herself wishing for the sound of his boots in the passageway.

  Nothing, she told herself fiercely, fighting to keep the tattered remnants of both her pride and her sanity intact, could be worse than what she had suffered at the beast's hands already. Being left as she was now, quite unable to do anything to ease her suffering, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional birdsong from outside, was in many ways far worse.

  At last she heard him returning. He was whistling quietly to himself, a melody she vaguely recalled but could not name, and when he strode into the room and around in front of her, she saw that he looked quite pleased with himself. To judge by the flush in his cheeks, he had taken more than just a couple of glasses of wine while he was away.

  'Ah, my sweet little slave pet,' he crooned, pursing his lips in a mocking kiss. 'So glad to see you're still here and that no harm's come to you. I hope you have not been too bored in my absence, but I do find that giving a girl time to reflect every now and then is so very beneficial to her future conduct.' He began pacing slowly around her in a circle, studying her carefully from every angle and occasionally reaching out to stroke her shoulder, her thigh, her stomach, her breast, the nape of her neck. His gentle caresses were at odds with his earlier treatment of her, but they steadily began to arouse the same sort of sensations.

  Sarah whimpered quietly and arched her back as she fought to resist what she was feeling.

  'Yes, such excellent raw material,' he smirked, running the backs of two fingers over her left breast, pausing only to squeeze the very tip of her nipple gently between them. 'You see what the right training can achieve, my pet? A day or two more and you'll be just perfect, worthy of double the price you might have fetched when you first arrived. A week from now, and it will seem unnatural for you not to be filled with one cock or another, be it made of flesh-and-blood, wood or leather. The lust lies within every female, it just needs the right person to find it and allow it to bloom. It is like exorcising a devil, or maybe that should be exercising a devil, freeing the bonds of the spirit.'

  Sarah eyed him sullenly, hating him for the fact that his words, although slurred and obviously the product of a demented mind, nevertheless rang all too true in some ways. Was it really so easy for one human being to manipulate, and eventually rule, another by these means? Could she really be reduced to how she felt now, let alone become the sort of creature he was describing and predicting he would make her?

  'Time for a little dancing class, I think.'

  Sarah grunted and tried to ease the pressure in her crotch, once more taking as much weight as she could onto her toes.

  Ross patted her across the buttocks, chuckling. 'Such a fine body,' he said. 'A little fleshy in places, but then so many young women do not exercise properly. A week or so here usually takes care of such things. Yes, indeed,' he continued, moving towards the bench, 'the right food, the proper exercise and training, and you won't recognise your old self by the time you're ready to leave here.'

  The sound of jingling bells warned Matilda of approaching danger just in time. She had just ducked into the bushes when the bird-girl burst out of the woods on the far side of the little clearing, her breasts bouncing, her winged arms flapping wildly at her sides. Her pursuer must have been close, for as she ran the poor creature kept trying to look back over her shoulder, and this inevitably hastened her downfall.

  Halfway across the grassy area she stumbled, and before she could even attempt to steady herself she was flying headlong. She landed with a sickening thump that must have driven the air from her lungs, for aside from a muffled groan, she gave no cry of pain.

  A moment later her nemesis appeared. Like the other hunters he was masked and dressed in black, so who he was Matilda could not tell, although his slight paunch suggested he was neither Roderick Grayling nor Guy Bressingham. She also surmised that the fallen bird-girl could not be the stupid creature who had actually volunteered herself for this insane hunt. No, it wasn't that silly Isobel creature, for this girl had no ribbon between her breast rings.

  The black-garbed hunter, seeing his quarry fallen and motionless, slowed to a walk, and with an effort not to appear as out of breath as he plainly was, he sauntered easily over to where she lay. He stood over her, a smirk spreading across the lower half of his face. He looked down at his prey, and then turned her over onto her back with the tip of his boot.

  The girl's eyes were open; she was conscious, if all but paralysed from the sickening fall, and Matilda could almost taste the fear she must now be experiencing.

  The hunter bent slightly at the waist and said, 'A brave effort, my little peacock. That was a fine chase back there. Now then, shall we have you up?' He reached down and grasped her by the shoulders, pulling her limp form into a sitting position. Breathing heavily from the added exertion, he crouched down beside her. He was obviously not accustomed to so much physical exercise, Matilda realised, but she also knew this would not stop him from enjoying his prize once he got his breath back.

  Sure enough, after about a minute or so, he stood up again and commanded the girl to do the same. Her lungs now working normally once more, she did as he instructed and stood with her head lowered, her arms limp at her sides, in an attitude of defeat and surrender. The man then reached out and flicked each of her nipple bells before walking around and dropping to one knee behind her, where he began fumbling with the buckle of the strap holding the leather phalluses in place.

  'We'll just test the meat for tenderness, I think,' he said. 'No point in bringing a tough bird to the table, so a little preliminary tenderising seems to be just the thing.'

  The multi-thonged whip Ross selected from amongst the implements on the bench was much larger, heavier, and altogether more ominous than the miniature implement he used on Sarah earlier, and a cold knot began to form in the pit of her stomach as she eyed it.

  'My dancing tutor, my pet,' he informed her, 'or should I say your dancing tutor.' Without further warning, he flicked out the tails so they snaked through the air to wrap themselves across the top of her buttocks.

  As the first searing pain shot through her she found herself leaping into the air, although not so far as to be able to detach herself from the shaft impaling her. And before she had time to consider and react, she slammed down again, driving the polished wooden shaft deep into her cleft. Her scream of pain contorted itself into another cry that was at once terror, agony, and something purely animalistic.

  Again the whip cracked, and although she tried to anticipate the blow, all she succeeded in doing this time was moderating her overall reaction. The wooden strut into which her wrists had been locked rasped up and down the pole as her feet shot into the air, splaying open on either side of the post as she kicked out wildly, fighting to overcome the myriad sensations battling inside her.

  The third time the whip coiled about her shoulders, its effect was to send her legs back downwards, the balls of her feet and her toes scrabbling for purchase as her upper body jerked forward until brought up short by the main timber. Tears streaming from her eyes and fires welling up inside, she bit hard into the gag and tensed for the next onslaught, but
Ross had further refinements he was about to subject her to.

  Tucking the handle of the whip into his belt, he strode back to the bench yet again, and this time he returned with a device that left Sarah completely cold and uncomprehending. It comprised a short, stubby phallus made of some kind of dark wood attached to a broad leather strap, and she did not see any way in which it could be employed, for it was surely too fat in its girth to fit into her one remaining lower orifice. However, as Ross began to fasten the strap about the pole before her face, she saw two thinner straps dangling from it and finally understood its purpose. Up close, she saw that the dildo was covered with a highly polished leather skin, the surface of which was scarred with teeth marks.

  'We must learn poise as well as the correct dance steps,' Ross chided her mockingly, 'and poise requires that the head remain steady at all times.' Having satisfied himself that the gag was well anchored, he quickly removed the one already in her mouth and tossed it over onto the bench. 'Now then,' he said quietly, 'let me see you take to this cock as you did to mine earlier.'

  'Oh please, no...' Sarah began, but the look in his eyes, and the complete lack of emotion on his face, told she was wasting her time begging.

  He nodded curtly. 'Take it in,' he said, 'and let's see your pretty mouth stretch for it.'

  And stretch Sarah's mouth did, for the girth of the hideous gag was far greater than any human counterpart could ever be. Thankfully, however, it was also much shorter than the usual flesh-and- blood equivalent, or else as Ross tightened the straps about her neck to prevent her expelling the foul monster she would surely have choked on it. As it was, her jaw felt it must surely come unhinged, and her cheeks bulged as the saliva began to trickle out onto her chin.

  'Now,' Ross said, taking out the whip again, 'let's see you dance and hear you hum the tune, shall we?'

  Jane had to work hard to keep Oona in check, for the dog-girl was eager to get properly into the hunt and did not seem to understand why this woman who held her leash kept hauling her back on it every time she tried to surge forward. Jane, however, knew exactly what she was doing, and exactly where she wanted to be. When the pair finally came out onto what the Grayling people always called the top path, which ran parallel to the northern boundary fence, she was certain they had arrived well ahead of their quarry.

  'Settle now, Oona,' she hissed, and tugged sharply on the leash.

  Oona looked back at her, and at the cane she brandished, and gave a low growling moan.

  Jane tugged again and indicated for the dog-girl to return to her side by slapping the cane against her boot. 'You'll get your fill of warm pussy soon enough, you horny little wretch. So why waste your strength chasing the game when the game will come to us? Now, let's see where the best place is to wait up, shall we?' She had already worked out that there were two options when it came to laying an ambush for the hapless fugitive, and as she studied the remains of two old fallen oaks, Jane decided the second choice would be the best. She chose a thick clump of evergreen bushes that had pushed out until they narrowed the path to almost a quarter of its width. There was no need even to make an effort to hide, all they had to do was step back behind the screen of foliage and wait until they heard the girl approaching. All Jane had to decide now was whether to shoot the girl in the thigh at point-blank range, or whether to let Oona loose and let her bring the bird down in full flight.

  She opted for the latter. The running girl would be exhausted by the time she reached this point, and Oona would be even more frustrated if she was not permitted to do what she had been trained for. Besides, Jane thought with a grin, Oona at the run was an impressive spectacle, and the creature would enjoy her rewards the better for having been the one to make the catch.

  'Quiet now, you silly bitch!' Jane hissed. 'The pretty birdie will be along very shortly and we don't want to scare her away into the bushes.'

  Men, Harriet knew, both from stories her father had told her and from accounts she read in books in the library room at Barten Meade, were capable of stooping to unimaginable depths of wickedness. But she had also been brought up to believe that no matter how dreadful and hopeless a situation might seem that good always triumphed over evil in the end.

  Huddled naked and alone in the corner of the crypt chamber, she realised how naive such a belief was. Until now, she had done nothing that would be deemed so terribly wrong in the eyes of her Maker. True, she had from time to time looked upon her reflection in the mirror and taken pride in her fine features, her soft eyes and beautiful hair, but then what girl wouldn't, she thought fiercely. Was that a justification for the fact that she now had no hair, that her beautiful face had been hidden inside this tight and dank-smelling mask and that her body was now covered in welts? Her virginity, the purity she had cherished for so long, had been stripped from her as brutally as had been her clothes. She had been whipped and called names no Christian maiden should ever hear, and why?

  Jane Handiwell, and her father's affection for Harriet. It was an affection Harriet had never encouraged or cultivated even though he was as straightforward, steadfast and uncorrupted as it was possible for any man to be. Yet he had unknowingly nurtured an evil viper in the bosom of his home, a daughter who repaid his love and affection with spite and treachery.

  Such a good man was Thomas, Harriet knew, that he would not for one instant believe his beloved daughter could even think of harming anyone he cherished. So honest was he that he would be staggered beyond belief to learn that his little Jane could even think he would allow his love for another to come between them. He would not be able to believe his daughter capable of such wicked jealousy, nor of turning from the honest path he himself had trod all his life.

  Even now he would be out there somewhere searching for Harriet, but he would be searching in completely the wrong place, suspecting all the wrong people. Whatever was happening at Grayling Hall, and Jane was doubtless involved in that, Thomas would not find her there, and neither would he think of looking closer to home. Even Crawley had no idea she was not Matilda, and the foul beasts now in his pay were just as ignorant; to them she was simply a welcome distraction, a something rather than a someone. They could use her to slake their lust before the hangman's rope put an end to her suffering.

  Harriet bowed her head, closing her eyes to fight back tears imagining the scene after they cut down her dead body, stripped away the terrible bridle and mask, and revealed her true identity. She prayed Thomas would not be there when the moment came, for she could imagine the guilt he would feel and how he would berate himself for not realising she had been so close all along. He would doubtless shed tears, beat his breast, and possibly even try to avenge her death. He would perhaps even forfeit his own life in doing so, for there would be those who would seek to protect the vile witchfinder and his perverted view of religion. But what was even worse was that Thomas Handiwell would probably, almost certainly, never know that the person most guilty for all of this was his own daughter.

  The fleeing bird-girl really had no chance. The clinking of her nipple bells heralded her approach, so Jane was able to stand and listen long enough to determine that her prey was moving at a fast walk. Oona began growling as he picked up the sounds and the scent, but a sharp tap from the cane silenced her.

  'Wait!' Jane commanded in a fierce whisper. 'Let's at least make some sport of this!'

  Oona gave a final whimper and then crouched tensely, the firm muscles of her buttocks twitching as Jane grasped her collar firmly to make sure she could not move until the precise moment.

  A second or two later the bird-girl came into view only a few yards away, but she was looking neither to left nor right; she was ambling along with a laboured, rolling gait, panting noisily, clearly struggling.

  Jane made a face, a look of disappointment, for she had wanted her prey tired, but this one looked to be on the verge of collapse. 'Well,' she whispered, her mouth close to Oona's ear, 'let's see if the bird bitch has anything left in her, shall we?' She
stood upright again and yelled at the top of her voice, 'Ho-la! Ho-la! Ho, there!'

  The sudden shout totally startled the girl. She stumbled, jerking her head around in the direction of the challenge. Her eyes widening in horror when she saw both the black-garbed Jane and the bristling dog-girl, she took off with renewed vigour.

  'That's more like it!' Jane cried triumphantly. Oona pulled hard on the leash and all but toppled her, forcing her to use the cane to check her. 'Wait,' she shrieked. 'Give her a sporting start first. You'll have her down in no time.'

  Jane waited until the fleeing mass of flapping feathers had gained about thirty yards before she released her human hound with a cry of encouragement. Oona needed no urging and was off in a flash, running with a loping stride that ate up the ground between herself and her prey at an astonishing rate.

  The girl, hearing her nemesis closing upon her, looked back once, her eyes round with terror and desperation, and Jane, who was now trotting along in their wake, saw that she did indeed manage to accelerate just a little, but not enough, and it was far too late. Oona suddenly leapt, stretching out horizontally, her clawed hands grasping. The girl gave a shriek of pain as the sharp metal scraped down her thighs, and then she fell, tumbling over and over with a snarling Oona wrestling and kicking her down.

  For a few more seconds the poor wench tried to put up a fight, but then she plainly realised it was a completely unequal struggle, and rolling over onto her stomach, she lay still. Oona perched on her back in an attitude of triumph, her claws settling into her victim's shoulders in case she should decide to try another escape.

  'Well done, Oona, you beautiful bitch.' Jane ran up alongside her. 'A shame she didn't give you more of a run, but I daresay there will be a chance for you to catch another bird before this afternoon is over.' She reached into the small pouch at her belt and drew out a coil of thin twine. 'We'll just truss her ready for the stuffing at table and leave her for the grooms to collect later.' Oona let out a plaintive whine. 'But not before you have her for stuffing yourself,' Jane added, smiling. She stepped back and flicked the ground with the tip of her cane. 'Go to it then,' she urged, 'see her off, you wicked bitch- dog.'