The Devil's Surrogate Read online

  Oona crawled from the prone figure and deftly flipped her onto her back. The girl was conscious and aware enough, but all the fight had gone out of her and even the sight of Oona's member beginning to appear from between her nether lips did no more than bring a strangled gasp from behind her gag.

  'Here, girl,' Jane said, stooping beside Oona. She reached beneath her and took the steadily thickening shaft in her gloved hand, masturbating it gently, something she would never have done with a normal man's organ. Oona let out a curious purring growl and began to pant. 'Now then,' Jane said, feeling the full hardness in her fingers, 'I should say you're near enough ready, so I'll just take this strap out of your way and you can fill her to your little black doggie-heart's content.'

  Sarah had guessed Ross's intentions from the way in which he secured her on the thick shaft, but she was totally unprepared for the way in which her body reacted to the stimulation caused by the way she bucked and writhed beneath the slow, steady whipping. With the phallic gag preventing her from moving her head and neck, her instinctive reaction to each stroke was to arch her back in and out, an exercise which lifted her weight, and then down again, so that now she rode the dildo in rhythm with his lashes.

  Whack! The leather tails coiled about her protruding buttocks and thighs, and her feet flailed hopelessly just above the ground as another howl of pain, mixed with an insidious, unbidden pleasure, forced its way past her distorted lips.

  Whack! The braids stung her calf muscles, sending her legs shooting outwards. The board that held her wrists slid up and down the pole as she fought to try to regain control of herself, but it was already a lost battle.

  'Dance, my pretty pet,' Ross bellowed. 'Dance like a butterfly and show your master just what a brazen little slave slut you're becoming.'

  Whack! The leather slapped across her shoulders. Unable to see clearly beyond a red mist in which danced a myriad of startling lights, Sarah screamed through her gag and surrendered to the unreal world clutching at her. The pain vanished into the strange ether in which she swam, and was replaced by a burning fire of passion and desire that drove her on through a grotesque ballet she performed like a helpless marionette. She knew nothing, felt nothing and cared for nothing save filling the inhuman hunger boiling up inside her from mysterious depths of her flesh she had never even suspected existed.

  The terrible wailing sound they had first heard about a hundred yards back in the woods was much louder now, and as he peered through the bushes, Paddy Riley realised it was coming from inside the timbered building that stood in the centre of the small clearing before them. Behind him, there was a rustling and cracking of dry twigs as Sean Kelly wriggled up to join him.

  'Will you listen to that?' Kelly gasped. 'Have you ever heard the likes of that before? Sounds like someone's torturing some poor bloody animal to death in there!' As he spoke they heard the sharp thwack of a whiplash, and the keening wail rose to a new crescendo.

  'Animal my balls,' Paddy grunted. 'Ain't no animal in there, saving you mean a human one.'

  'Never could it be,' Kelly hissed. 'No human could be making a racket of that kind.'

  'I tell you it is,' Paddy persisted. 'That's some poor female making the devil's own, and taking it too.' The crack of the whip cut through the still afternoon air again. The howling rose in pitch and hung as if suspended above the trees.

  'What are we going to do?' Kelly demanded. His face had taken on a grey pallor and his knuckles were white from how fiercely he was gripping the stock of his musket. The howl ebbed and flowed, becoming a choking sob that was again followed by another crack of the whip, and a renewed shrieking that threatened to make them all sick to their stomachs.

  Paddy sighed and reached for the long knife he always carried slung from his belt. 'Do?' he echoed, his voice sounding dull, almost inhuman. 'There's only one thing we can do, unless you think we can just sit here listening to that, or just up and walk away.'

  Crouched down in the centre of a circle of bushes, Isobel was beginning to doubt her senses. Time seemed to have stopped, for she was sure the hour must have elapsed by now and yet there was still no sound from the bell-tower bell. The slightest sound, muffled by the soft leather of the helmet pressing against her ears, sent her heart leaping into her throat as she feared imminent discovery, but each time she realised it was only a bird, or a small animal scurrying through the undergrowth.

  The sound of her breathing seemed magnified tenfold, the pounding of her heart an ominous echo, and her smallest movement seemed to set off a cacophony of bells that she was convinced could be heard for miles around. In her head pictures swirled around in a kaleidoscope of bared teeth and brown arms tipped with glittering claws surrounded by grinning faces, Roderick Grayling's and Guy Bressingham's mocking visages glorying in her failure.

  Isobel shook her head. This was foolishness, she told herself firmly. She had gone to ground some time since, and she was as far away from the likely hunting area as it was possible to be without actually venturing towards the cleared areas along the perimeter of the fence. She was also well hidden; six or seven feet of thick foliage surrounded her on all sides, thoroughly screening her from anyone passing within even a few paces of her hiding place.

  She eased herself slowly around into a sitting position, taking great care to ensure that her breasts did not bounce with the movement, trying to reassure herself that it could now only be a matter of minutes before her wager was won. She peered down at the bright ribbon between her nipple rings. It had to be Bressingham who caught her, which must surely have tipped the odds heavily in her favour. Perhaps, she reflected, she should have cut westwards and crossed into the territory where the other bird-girls were being hunted; that might well have confused the issue considerably and left Bressingham scouring a totally empty section of the forest.

  It was too late now, however, and she must surely be within touching distance of victory. She held her breath and willed her heart to beat silently as she closed her eyes to concentrate on listening...

  The afternoon breeze had picked up, the leaves rustling gently beneath a wind blowing from several different directions, and she could hear birds as they chirped away. Apart from that, there was nothing but silence... a silence suddenly punctuated by the mournful and toneless tolling of a bell that sent a shiver of fear through her until she realised what it meant. Her heart leapt as she jumped to her feet, and but for the gag in her mouth she would have cried out in triumph.

  She had won! The hour was up, and she was still free! Bressingham had failed and she could now return to the house in triumph and collect her money from all those who had looked upon her so mockingly as she was led out and herded together with the other bird-girls.

  With a deep sigh of relief, Isobel stooped again and began to push her way through the tangle of branches, not caring that they dragged the feathers from her bedraggled wings. She was already counting her winnings and rehearsing the way in which she would verbally repay all those fools for ever doubting her.

  The sight that greeted the two troopers as they entered the last chamber inside the barn brought them up with a shock. Only the fact that the man with the whip was wielding it with so much concentrated attention allowed them the extra seconds they needed to recover their composure, and to leap upon him before he had time to register their presence. As Sean Kelly took him into a fierce body hug, Paddy drove the butt of his musket into the pit of the fellow's stomach, driving the breath out of him, and then clubbed him unconscious with another fierce blow to the side of his head.

  To their further astonishment, the naked girl clinging to the post continued to let out a high-pitched wail, and all the while her body jerked up and down, her breasts bouncing and her legs flailing. For a moment none of the men realised what was happening. It was Sean who finally saw the projecting stud and its vertical extension, or at least the small part of it not embedded within her.

  'Mother of God!' he breathed, and quickly crossed himself. 'The lass is fri
ggin' a bloody pole!'

  'Just grab her shoulders,' Paddy snapped, promptly stepping forward. 'Hold her tight and I'll get a hold under her. If she keeps this up she'll do herself some harm.'

  However, once he had unfastened the straps holding her mouth open around the gag, the only danger of harm came from the girl's wild kicking. Even when they had finally managed to lift her clear of the pole, she continued to writhe in their grasp like a demented serpent. Only the fact that her wrists were still held firm inside the miniature pillory bar prevented her from doing them some real damage. And then, abruptly, her fit subsided, and with a despairing groan she sagged in their arms, her knees buckling. At this, Paddy promptly transferred his attention to freeing her arms. Quickly finding and working out the simple locking mechanism, he opened the bar. They then carried her clear of the post and laid her across the hard earth floor as gently as her twitching and jerking permitted. Looking up, Paddy saw young Toby Blaine standing in the doorway, his eyes wide.

  'Go on, lad,' he snapped. 'This is no place for you. Get yourself to the outer door and keep watch. This blackguard may well have friends close by and we don't want to give them the jump on us. Here,' he urged, seeing Toby's lack of response, 'take my pistol. You know how to use it?'

  Dumbly, Toby nodded.

  'Good lad. And aim at the body; it's a bigger target than the head. Now, Sean lad, you hold her still and let's see what all this is about. This strapping about her middle can't be doing her any good.' Sean, he could see, was only marginally less shocked by the scene they had witnessed than the boy, and seemed almost afraid to touch the naked girl.

  'Will you keep a decent hold on her?' he asked impatiently. 'This is no time for trying to play the bloody gentleman. And try not to let her poor back rub on the floor, either; her flesh is sore as hell from the look of it.'

  'I don't like this at all, Paddy,' Sean whispered. 'She acts as if she's possessed by the devil himself.'

  'Pa!' He aimed a half-hearted slap at Sean's head. 'The only thing as has possessed this one is that bloody cock thing up there.' He nodded tersely back at the object of her degradation. 'Your man had her bouncing up and down on the damned thing for the Lord knows how long, and she lost her mind to lust, that's all.'

  'Is she going to die, do you think?'

  Paddy peered down at the girl's face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open. 'Well,' he said slowly, 'I've never heard of a body dying from a good shagging, but then this is something else again, Sean, and I'm no doctor. But no, I think she'll be all right in a while. This is just a fit of the hysterics and it'll pass, like everything else, in time.'

  It had felt like an eternity. It had been the longest hour in Isobel's life. But now, as she stumbled wearily but triumphantly out onto the path, it was over and she had won. She stopped to look up at the sky and draw a deep breath in through her nostrils. The air tasted fresh and good, apart from the faint aroma of the leather still encasing her head and face. She grinned around the disfiguring gag and groaned with anticipation. The hood, the feathers, the gag, everything would soon be in the past and she would enjoy every moment of Bressingham's defeat.

  She pulled back her shoulders and thrust her breasts forward in a defiant attitude, jiggling them slightly so the bells tinkled merrily, but now the tiny ringing sounds were peals of victory; gone was their haunting mockery. Yes, she thought, this was the way to return, not cowering helplessly but rather glorying in her victory, proudly displaying her body... and suddenly her muscles contracted and went into spasms as the two shafts inside her reminded of their presence. She shuddered, started to fight their wicked influence, and then shook her head. Why fight it? She had already won.

  She fell to her knees, bowing her feathered head, and her body began to convulse as waves of unbelievable power and release swept through her.

  She did not notice the bright length of ribbon fluttering innocently on the end of the bramble branch behind her, where it had caught and been tugged free of the loose knots Grayling had tied in his eagerness to begin the hunt. She did not notice that the ribbon no longer hung between her clamped and distended nipples as she surrendered to the power of her orgasm. She did not notice the two pairs of eyes that watched her from deep in the trees, one pair with a mixture of disdain and amusement, the other with a ferocious hunger even the brown furry mask could not hide.

  Crawley stood silhouetted in the doorway by the light of a lamp behind him, and there were other men out in the passageway. 'Prepare her with another scourging,' he said, 'then wash her down with salted water and bring her to the rear door. She shall stand at the stake and watch Wickstanner laid to rest, and then the sun dipping towards the hills for the last time. The whole village shall then see what becomes of those who dare to meddle in the ways of the dark side.'

  'You want that we should remove the hood and the other thing?' a male voice asked.

  For a moment Harriet's hopes rose. If Crawley's henchmen knew her true identity they would be unlikely to help him kill her, even though the man himself might want to do so in an effort to cover up his mistake.

  'No.' Harriet's heart sank once more. 'No,' Crawley repeated, 'we'll not risk giving her any chance to spin her enchantments again. You all saw what happened to Father Wickstanner. No, leave the witch to her silence and prepare her as I said.' He turned away, and his place was taken by several other shadows before the one carrying the lantern entered the little chamber, flooding it with a light that, though dim in reality, seemed as bright as the sun to Harriet after her hours of near darkness.

  'Aye,' said Thaddeus Gilbert, looming over her, 'we'll prepare the witch with one last good tupping from us all, eh lads?'

  'Well then, Paddy,' Sean Kelly sighed and leaned back against the post that had until so recently been the host to Sarah's humiliating surrender, 'you're the sergeant, so what do we do next?'

  Paddy Riley, still crouching by the semiconscious form on the floor, looked up with a grimace. 'If there's one thing I'm sure of in all this, Sean me boy,' he said softly, 'it's that I'm sure of nothing. I've never come across the likes of any of this in all my days, and if I never come across it again, it'll be a day too soon.'

  'Any idea who she is?' Sean asked. 'Not the one we came for, I'd guess, or the lad would've said.'

  'It doesn't matter who the poor lass is,' Paddy muttered. 'Wherever she came from, and whoever she is, she sure as heaven's mercy doesn't want to be staying here a minute longer than she has to.'

  'Amen to that,' Sean agreed. 'But how do we get her out of here? We could try carrying her, but that leaves us with only one gun, unless we count young Toby out there, and I'd not like to leave the state of my hide in the hands of a whelp.'

  'I'm trying to think,' Paddy muttered, sitting back on his haunches and running a hand over his rough chin. 'You're right, of course, we can't carry her, and I don't like to beat a retreat without at least trying to find out if the other woman is somewhere hereabouts.'

  'Maybe we could risk leaving her here for a bit?' Sean suggested. 'Yon fella there looks out of it for a good while yet, if he ever does come round again. We could leave the lad to watch over the pair of them, and give him that length of timber with instructions to whack the bastard again if he so much as stirs.'

  'And then who's going to tell us if and when we find Mistress Harriet?' Paddy shook his head. 'No, we'll need to be a bit cleverer than that, Sean Kelly, and I have the scrapings of an idea.'

  'You said that a while back,' Sean reminded him.

  Paddy nodded. 'I know I did,' he conceded, 'and that plan may still hold good.' He stood up again. 'We'll have to leave Toby with the girl for a while, yes, but only for as long as it takes us to grab one of those black-hooded bastards out there. If we can grab two, all the better, but one will do. Then we'll need to see where they keep their horses, and with luck a coach or a wagon.'

  'And then we look for the other girl?'

  'Maybe,' Paddy replied, 'and maybe not. Seems they have the girls here
running about in all sorts of garb, and even this one has been shaved. Young Toby might not recognise our lady, but I know who he would recognise.'

  'And who might that be?'

  Paddy pursed his lips and walked slowly towards the doorway. 'Sean,' he said slowly, 'there's two ways to win a battle and I've seen both. There's the one where the generals say "charge up that hill lads and take the flag and don't worry how many of you all get cut to ribbons by the cannons and muskets, 'cause it's for king and country you're fighting". Of course,' he added wryly, 'now it's for Cromwell and country, but it amounts to the same thing: you end up just as dead if you get a ball through the heart. And then,' he continued, turning back to stare at the girl who was now moaning softly and rolling her head slowly from side to side, 'there's the other way, where a couple of worthy lads sneak up around the side and climb the hill from the back. They grab the flag, shoot the enemy officers, and then grab the main general as a hostage.'

  'You've seen that done?' Sean asked, visibly impressed.

  Paddy kept a straight face for a second or two, and then his weathered features wrinkled into a broad grin. 'Well, maybe not quite the way I just told it,' he confessed, 'but it always seemed to me it would be a damned sight less wasteful if it could be done, and there's been a war or two won by ways not so very different. When Cromwell grabbed the old king there were still thousands of royalists ready to fight, but did they? No, they all laid down their guns and went home like good little boys.'